ONGS 
SUNRISE  LANDS 


CLINTON    SCOLLARD 


i'irh 

-n.Ji_n— ru_n_n_rLjv_n_lr 

REESE   LIBRARY 

'    OK   THK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Deceived  . .   '   M  A  p  1  5 


ZZ-. 


SONGS  OF 
SUNRISE   LANDS 

BY 
CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND 
COMPANY.  MDCCCXCII 


COPYRIGHT,  1892 
BY   CLINTON   SCOLLARD 
ALL   RIGHTS  RESERVED 


o  O  fytf  o 


The  Riverside  Press ,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


TO  GEORGIA 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

KHAMSIN i 

THE  RIDE 4 

THE  SHEKH  ABDALLAH 8 

EASTER  EVE  AT  KERAK-MOAB n 

THE  MOSQUE  OF  THE  SULTAN  HASSAN        .        .        .20 

MELIK  THE  BLACK 24 

IN  THE  HARARA 26 

A  NILE  NIGHT 28 

A  REED 30 

THE  BRONZE  CHRIST 31 

MIRAGE 35 

THE  PRAYER 36 

IN  GILEAD 37 

THE  PALM  OF  JENIN 39 

SPRING  IN  GALILEE 42 

A  SONNET  OF  SONNETS. 

I.     THE  NILE 45 

II.    AN  ARAB  BOY 46 

III.  AN  EGYPTIAN  NIGHT 47 

IV.  A  HEAD  OF  Isis 48 

V.     THE  PALMS 49 

VI.    SAHARA 50 

VII.    A  SHELL 51 

VIII.    MEMNON 52 

IX.     THE  OASIS 53 

X.    A  DERVISH 54 


vi  CONTENTS 

XI.     BUBASTIS 55 

XII.    Ax  HELIOPOLIS 56 

XIII.  THE  MUEZZIN 57 

XIV.  THE  SPHINX 58 

A  DAMASCUS  BLADE 59 

THE  GOLDEN  STREAM 61 

A  KORAN 63 

THE  CALIPH'S  PILLAR 65 

SHERBET 68 

THE  MINSTREL 71 

A  PRAYER  CARPET     .                 73 

THE  SUN  AND  THE  NEW  MOON   .....  75 

HADETH  THE  MARONITE 76 

MUSTAPHA So 

E-LIM-IN-AH-DO 87 

ON  AN  ANTIQUE  LAMP 89 

SUNRISE  ON  THE  AEGEAN 90 

NIGHT  ON  THE  ACROPOLIS 93 

THE  TETTIX        ........  97 

ORACLES 98 

A  GREEK  PASTORAL 100 

A  TEAR  BOTTLE 101 

HONEY  OF  HYMETTUS 102 

A  FERN  FROM  THE  PIERIAN  SPRING  .        .        .        .105 

MOONRISE    OVER    SALAMIS Io6 

A  SHEPHERD'S  CROOK  .......  108 

HYMN  OF  THE  MORNING  .                                         .  in 


KHAMSIN 

OH,  the  wind  from  the  desert  blew  in  !  — 

Khamsin, 

The  wind  from  the  desert,  blew  in ! 
It  blew  from  the  heart  of  the  fiery  south, 
From  the  fervid  sand  and  the  hills  of  drouth, 
And   it   kissed   the   land   with   its    scorching 

mouth ; 
The  wind  from  the  desert  blew  in  ! 

It  blasted  the  buds  on  the  almond  bough, 
And  shriveled  the  fruit  on  the  orange-tree ; 
The  wizened  dervish  breathed  no  vow, 
So  weary  and  parched  was  he. 
The  lean  muezzin  could  not  cry ; 
The  dogs  ran  mad,  and  bayed  the  sky ; 
The  hot  sun  shone  like  a  copper  disk, 
And  prone  in  the  shade  of  an  obelisk 
The  water-carrier  sank  with  a  sigh, 
i 


2  KHAMSIN 

For  limp  and  dry  was  his  water-skin  ; 
And  the  wind  from  the  desert  blew  in. 

The  camel  crouched  by  the  crumbling  wall, 

And  oh,  the  pitiful  moan  it  made ! 

The  minarets,  taper  and  slim  and  tall, 

Reeled  and  swam  in  the  brazen  light ; 

And  prayers  went  up  by  day  and  night, 

But  thin  and  drawn  were  the  lips  that  prayed. 

The  river  writhed  in  its  slimy  bed, 

Shrunk  to  a  tortuous,  turbid  thread  ; 

The  burnt  earth  cracked  like  a  cloven  rind ; 

And  still  the  wind,  the  ruthless  wind, 

Khamsin, 
The  wind  from  the  desert,  blew  in. 

Into  the  cool  of  the  mosque  it  crept, 

Where  the  poor  sought  rest  at  the  Prophet's 

shrine  ; 

Its  breath  was  fire  to  the  jasmine  vine ; 
It  fevered  the  brow  of  the  maid  who  slept, 
And  men  grew  haggard  with  revel  of  wine. 
The  tiny  fledgelings  died  in  the  nest ; 
The  sick  babe  gasped  at  the  mother's  breast. 
Then  a  rumor  rose  and  swelled  and  spread 


KHAMSIN  3 

From  a  tremulous  whisper,  faint  and  vague, 
Till  it  burst  in  a  terrible  cry  of  dread, 

The  plague!  the  plague  !  the  plague  ! — 

Oh,  the  wind  Khamsin, 
The  scourge  from  the  desert,  blew  in  ! 


THE   RIDE 

WE  rose  in  the  clear,  cool  dawning,  and  greeted 

the  eastern  star ; 
"  To  saddle  !  "  —  our  shout  rang  sharply  out 

by  the  huts  of  Kerf  Hawar. 
The  dervish  slept  by  the  wayside,  the  dog  still 

dozed  by  the  door, 
No  yashmaked  maid,  with  her  water-jar,  bent 

low  by  the  swift  stream's  shore. 
The  poplar  leaves,  as  we  mounted,  turned  white 

in  the  veering  wind, 
And  the  icy  peak  of  Hermon  shone  pyramidal 

behind. 

We  had  looked  on  the  towers  of  Hebron,  and 

seen  the  sunlight  wane 
Over  Zion's  massive  citadel,  and  Omar's  holy 

fane  ; 
We   had   passed  with   pilgrim  footsteps   over 

Judah's  rocks  and  rills, 
4 


THE   RIDE  5 

And  seen  the  anemone-torches  flare  on  the 
Galilean  hills. 

But  our  eager  hearts  cried,  "  Onward  !  —  be 
yond  are  the  fairest  skies  ; 

Where  rippling  Barada  silvers  down,  the  bower 
of  the  Prophet  lies." 

So  we  plunged  through  the  tranquil  twilight, 
ere  the  sun  rolled  grandly  up, 

And  brimmed  the  sky  with  its  amber  as  Leba 
non  wine  a  cup. 

We  dashed  down  the  bare,  brown  wadies,  where 
echo  cried  from  the  crag ; 

There  was  never  a  hoof  to  linger,  and  never  a 
foot  to  lag ; 

We  raced  where  the  land  lay  level,  and  we 
spurred  it,  black  and  bay, 

Till  the  crimson  bud  of  the  morning  flowered 
full  into  dazzling  day. 

The  dim,  dark  speck  in  the  distance  grew  green 

and  broad  and  large, 
And  lo  !  a  minaret's  slender  spear  on  the  line 

of  its  northern  marge. 
Then  oh,  what  a  cheer  we  lifted,  and  oh,  how 

we  forward  flew, 


<6  THE  RIDE 

And  oh,  the  balm  of  the  greeting  breeze  that 

out  from  the  gardens  blew  ! 
And  now  we  rode  in  the  shadow  of  boughs 

that  were  blossom-sweet, 
While  the  gurgle  of  crystal  waters  rilled  up 

through  the  swooning  heat. 

Pink  were   the   proud   pomegranates,   a   rosy 

cloud  to  the  sight, 
And  the  fluttering  bloom  of  the  orange  was 

white  in  the  zenith  light ; 
And  sudden,  or  ever  we  dreamed  it,  did  the 

orchards  give  apart, 
And  there  was  the  bowered  city  with  the  flood 

of  its  orient  heart ; 
'There  was  the  endless   pageant  that  surged 

through  the  arching  gate ; 
There  was  the  slim  Bride's  Minaret,  and  the 

ancient  "street  called  Straight." 

And  now  that  the  ride  was  ended,  there  was 

rest  for  man  and  beast ; 
For  our  trusty  steeds  there  was  shelter,  and 

grain  for  a  goodly  feast ; 
For   us   there  were   growing   marvels,   and   a 

wonder-wealth  untold, 


THE  RIDE  7 

In  the  opulent  glow  of  the  daytime,  in  night 
with  its  moon  of  gold. 

For  sherbet  and  song  and  roses,  with  a  love- 
smile  flashed  between, 

Recur  like  the  beat  of  a  measure  in  the  life  of 
a  Damascene. 

We  will  rise  in  dreams,  beloved,  by  the  gleam 

of  the  morning  star, 
And  ride  to  the  pearl  of  cities  from  the  huts  of 

Kerf  Hawar. 


THE   SHEKH   ABDALLAH 

What  does  the  Shekh  Abdallah  do 
In  the  long,  dull  time  of  the  Ramadan  ? 
Why,  he  rises  and  says  his  prayers,  and  then 
He  sleeps  till  the  prayer-hour  comes  again ; 
And  thus  through  the  length  of  the  weary  day 
Does  he  sleep  and  pray,  and  sleep  and  pray. 
Whenever  the  swart  muezzin  calls 
From  the  crescent-guarded  minaret  walls, 
Up  he  leaps  and  bows  his  turbaned  brows 
Toward  Mecca,  this  valiant  and  holy  man, 
The  Shekh  Abdallah  —praise  be  to  Allah  /— 
In  the  long,  dull  time  of  the  Ramadan. 

What  does  the  Shekh  Abdallah  do 
In  the  long,  dull  time  of  the  Ramadan  ? 
Why,  he  fasts  and  fasts  without  reprieve, 
From  the  blush  of  morn  till  the  blush  of  eve. 
Never  so  much  as  a  sip  takes  he 
Of  the  fragrant  juice  of  the  Yemen  berry ; 
He  shakes  no  fruit  from  the  citron-tree, 
8 


THE  SHEKH  ABDALLAH  9 

Nor  plucks  the  pomegranate,  nor  tastes  the 

cherry. 

His  sandal  beads  seem  to  tell  of  deeds 
That  were  wrought  by  the  hand  of  the  holy 

man, 

The  Shekh  Abdallah  — praise  be  to  Allah  !  — 
In  the  long,  dull  time  of  the  Ramadan. 

What  does  the  Shtkh  Abdallah  do 

In  the  long,  dull  time  of  the  Ramadan  ? 

Why,  he  calls  his  servants,  and  just  as  soon 

As  in  the  copses  the  night-birds  croon 

A  roasted  kid  is  brought  steaming  in, 

And  then  does  the  glorious  feast  begin  ; 

Smyrna  figs  and  nectarines  fine, 

Golden  flasks  of  Lebanon  wine, 

Sherbet  of  rose  and  pistachios, 

All  are  spread  for  the  holy  man, 

The  Shekh  Abdallah  —praise  be  to  Allah  /— 

In  the  long,  dull  time  of  the  Ramadan. 

What  does  the  Shekh  Abdallah  do 
In  the  long,  dull  time  of  the  Ramadan  ? 
Why,  when  the  cloying  feast  is  o'er, 
Dancers  foot  it  along  the  floor  ; 


IO  THE  SHEKH  ABDALLAH 

Night-long  to  the  sound  of  lute  and  viol 

There  is  wine-mad  mirth  and  the  lilt  of  song, 

And  loving  looks  that  brook  no  denial 

From  a  radiant,  rapturous  throng. 

"  Morn  calls  to  prayers,  now  away  with  cares  !  " 

He  cries  (this  faithful  and  holy  man  !), 

The  Shtkh  Abdallah  —praise  be  to  Allah  /—- 

In  the  long,  dull  time  of  the  Ramadan. 


EASTER   EVE   AT   KERAK-MOAE 

THE  fiery  mid-March  sun  a  moment  hung 
Above  the  bleak  Judean  wilderness  ; 
Then  darkness  swept  upon  us,  and 't  was  night. 
The  brazen  day  had  stifled.     On  our  eyes, 
That  throbbed  and  stung,  the  dusk  fell  like  a 

balm. 
We  lay  and  looked  and  listened.     The  warm 

wind 

Blew  low  and  lutelike,  and  a  fountain's  fret 
Made  sweeter  melody  than  all  the  streams 
That  gush  from  Nebo  to  far  Sinai. 
A  strange-voiced  bird  among  the  thicket  thorns 
Sang  to  a  star.     The  jackals  loud  resumed 
Their  weird  nocturnal  quarrels,  and  the  laugh 
Of  some  hill-strayed  hyena  broke  across 
The  wild-dog's  bickerings,  — ironic,  mad. 
The  palms  that  waved  o'er  squalid  Jericho 
Towered   ghostly,   and   the   Moab   mountains 

made 

An  inky  line  along  the  eastern  sky. 
ii 


12       EASTER  EVE  AT  KERAK-MOAB 

Behind  us  bulky  Quarantana  gloomed, 
And  there  a  beacon,  from  a  rock-cut  cave, 
Pricked  the  black  night  with  its  keen  point  of 
fire. 

Demetrius  Domian,  trusty  dragoman, 

Good  friend  and  comrade,  hale  and  handsome 

Greek, 

On  elbow  leaning,  pointed  one  bronzed  hand 
Toward  the  vast,  vague,  and  misty  land  that  lay 
Beyond  the  sacred  Jordan.     "There,"  he  said, 
A  quaver  breaking  his  deep-chested  voice,  — 
"  There,  in  wild  Moab.  Kerak-Moab  lies." 
Ofttimes  before  when  day  had  spent  its  heat, 
And  in  the  wide  tent  doorway  we  reclined 
On  carpets  Damascene,  our  guide  had  told 
Strange  tales  adventurous,  — of  desert  rides 
Toward  lonely  Tadmor  and  old  Bagdad  shrines  ; 
Of  wanderings  with  the  Meccan  caravan 
Where  to  be  known  a  Christian  was  to  die  ; 
Of  braving  Druses  in  their  Hauran  haunts, 
Where  they  kept  guard  o'er  treasures  of  dead 

kings 

In  cities  overthrown.     Such  tales  as  these 
Had  'livened  many  a  quiet  evening  hour 


EASTER  EVE  AT  KERAK-MOAB       13 

After  long  pilgrimage.     So  when  the  Greek 
Would     fain     dispel     our     homeward-turning 

thoughts, 

We  gave  him  ready  ear.     This  tale  he  told 
In  clear  narration  :  — 

"  Nigh  three  years  have  seen 
The  olives  ripen  round  Jerusalem 
Since  from  St.  Stephen's  gateway  I  set  forth 
For  Kerak-Moab  with  young  Ibraim. 
My  cousin  he,  a  comely  youth,  whom  love 
Had  won  with  soft  allurements.    He  would  wed 
A  Kerak  maid  upon  blest  Easter  Day, 
And  I  must  thither  with  him,  —  such  his  will, 
Which  I  in  no  wise  had  desire  to  thwart  j 
For  when  his  mother  lay  at  brink  of  death, 
(His  father  having  long  put  off  this  life), 
She  bade  me  be  a  brother  unto  him, 
And  brother-like  we  were. 

"  Before  us  rode 

Our  servant,  bearing  on  his  sturdy  beast 
The  needs  for  shelter  on  our  lonely  way, 
And  food  therewith,  and  gifts  to  glad  the  bride. 
By  Kedrith's  gloomy  gorge,  and  Jericho, 


14       EASTER  EVE  AT  KERAK-MOAB 

And  Jordan's  ford,  we   journeyed;  then  our 

path 

Past  Heshbon  led  us,  and  near  Baal-Meon, 
Where,  records  say,  Elisha  first  drew  breath. 
The  fifth  day's  sun  was  westering  ere  we  saw 
The  antique  gray  of  Kerak-Moab's  towers, 
And  the  all-crowning  citadel. 

"  A  warm, 

Heart-moving  welcome  greeted  us,  and  soon 
Amid  the  kinsfolk  of  the  bride  to  be 
In  merriment  the  jostling  words  went  round. 
'Twas  Easter  Eve.     The  house  wherein  that 

night 

We  were  to  shelter  stood  anear  a  breach 
Within  the  wall  that  bulwarked  round  the  town. 
An  ancient  wall  it  was,  Crusader-built, 
And    doubtless    shattered   by   those    Paynim 

hordes 

That  northward  surged  from  arid  Araby, 
Setting  Mohammed's  name  o'er  that  of  Christ ; 
And  it  was  here  the  father  of  the  bride 
Had  reared  his  goodly  dwelling.    Night  was  old 
Before  we  left  his  roof  to  seek  the  door 
That  gracious  kin  had  left  unbarred  for  us. 


EASTER  EVE  AT  KERAK^MOAB        15 

Along  the  lanelike  streets  in  silvery  pools 
The  moonlight  gleamed.     From  distant  house 
tops  bayed, 

In  broken  iteration,  Moslem  dogs, 
But  'twixt  their  baying  all  was  desert-still. 
'  Why  should  we  go  within  ? '  Ibraim  said. 
'  Come,  dear  Demetrius,  on  this  night  of  nights, 
The  last,  perchance,  that  I  shall  pass  with  thee, 
In  this  sweet  air  let  us  remain  awhile, 
And  talk  as  brothers ;  for  my  life  will  soon 
Be  strangely  changed,  and  though  we  oft  may 

meet, 

Yet  will  there  be  another  tongue  to  speak ; 
But  now  we  are  alone.' 

"  Arm  linked  in  arm 

We  sought  the  breach,  and  spying  in  the  wall 
A  nook  where  we  could  clamber,  high  above, 
And  wide  o'erlooking  all  the  moonlit  scene, 
We  scrambled  to  it.     There  the  hyssop  grew, 
And  rugged  seats  invited  to  recline. 
Then,  while  he  told  me  his  fond  tale  of  love 
Over  again  for  quite  the  hundredth  time, 
I  mused  upon  the  future,  vacant-eyed, 
Beholding  nothing.     When  his  happy  speech 


1 6       EASTER  EVE  AT  KERAK-MOAB 

Had  run  its  course,  and  silence  jarred  me  back 
To  ambient  things,  my  conscious  vision  caught 
A  shadowy  glimpse  of  one  swift-skulking  form, 
From  fragment  unto  fragment  of  prone  wall 
In  phantom  quiet  flitting.     While  I  gazed, 
Another  and  another  followed  fast, 
Till,  as  I  gripped  Ibraim's  arm,  a  score 
In  sudden  sight  from  black  concealment  rose, 
And  forward  gliding  noiselessly,  below 
Our  lofty  cranny  paused.     Anxious,  alert, 
We  listened  breathlessly,  and  then  we  heard  — 
Just  God  !  but  how  we  started  when  we  heard, 
And  horror-mute  stared  in  each  other's  eyes, 
That  moment  haggard  grown  ! 

"  Then  down  we  slipped, 
And  in  the  shadow  by  the  breach's  edge 
Where  dropped  the  wall  nigh  two  men's  height 

away 

To  sloping  ground,  with  faces  set,  and  hands 
Fast  clutching  weapon  hilts,  we  stood  in  wait. 
We  dared  not  leave  the  breach.  The  robber 

band, 

Once  in  the  town,  would  spread  through  sinu 
ous  lanes 


EASTER  EVE   AT  KERAK-MOAB       \J 

And  sow  destruction  ;  and  the  first  to  fall 
Beneath  their  ruthless  power  might  be  the  ones 
To  whom  by  love-ties  was  Ibraim  bound. 
We  felt  that  here  their  onset  we  must  face, 
And  with  that  onset  lift  our  cry  for  aid. 
Their  parley  ceased.     A  moment,  and  we  saw 
Two  stealthy  forms  rise,  black  against  the  moon, 
Propped   by    their   comrades   on   the   ground 

below. 
Then  pealed   our  wildest  shout,  and  on  the 

twain 

We  flung  ourselves  so  madly  they  were  hurled 
Sheer  backward  on  the  heads  below.     A  space 
The  band  retreated,  but  when  they  divined 
That  we  alone  stood  guard,  while  still  our  cries 
Vibrated  down  the  corridors  of  night, 
In  one  close  mass  they  rushed  upon  the  breach, 
Like  some  huge  wave  that,  when  the  seas  are 

fierce, 

Rolls  on  the  ruined  battlements  of  Tyre, 
Clutches  their  base,  and  reaches  clinging  arms, 
To  clasp  the  loftiest  stone. 

"  Then  from  its  sheath, 
Where  like  a  coiled  serpent  round  my  waist 


1 8       EASTER  EVE   AT  KERAK-MOAB 

Slept  my  curved  blade  of  keen  Damascus  steel, 
I  whipped  it  forth,  as  drew  Ibraim  his. 
A  deadly  circle  did  we  flash  in  air, 
And  on  that  human  wave  fell  vengefully. 
Twice,  thrice,  we  smote,  and  while,  unharmed, 

I  clove 
A  fourth   black-turbaned    crown,    I   saw   two 

fiends 

Leap  at  Ibraim.     As  he  slew  the  first 
The  other  seized  him  in  his  demon  grasp, 
And,  like  one  frenzied,  sprang  through  middle 

space 
Upon  the  writhing  throng. 

"  Along  the  street 

The  tardy  rescuers  surged.     I  cried  them  on  ; 
But  when  they  came,  the  wily  Bedouin  foe 
Had  sought  the  shielding  shadow  of  the  night. 

"  I  raised  Ibraim 's  head  :  his  heavy  lids 
Fluttered  a  moment,  and  around  his  mouth 
A  sad  smile  hovered,  as  he  breathed  my  name 
And  that  of  his  beloved.     Death  was  bride 
Of  brave  Ibraim  on  that  Easter  Eve." 


EASTER  EVE  AT  KERAK-MOAB       19 

Demetrius  paused,  and  leaned  upon  his  palm. 
A  sudden  wind  tore  at  the  tent.     Above, 
Black  clouds  had  gulfed  the  stars.     A  bodeful 

moan 

Grew  momently  amid  the  dark  defiles  ; 
The  livid  lightning  rent  the  breast  of  night, 
Then  burst  the  brooding  storm.     But  lo  !  at 

dawn 

Peace  smiled  upon  the  plain  of  Jericho, 
And  all  the  line  of  Moab  mountains  lay 
Golden  and  glad  beneath  the  risen  sun. 


THE  MOSQUE  OF  THE   SULTAN 
HASSAN 

By  Arabian  tomes  we  are  told 

He  was  just,  as  a  ruler  and  man,  — 

The  Caliph  of  Cairo  the  old, 
The  Sultan  Hassan. 

One  day  did  he  hear  of  the  fame 

Of  a  builder,  and  straightway  he  said : 
"  I  will  build  me  a  mosque  that  my  name 
May  outlive  me  when  dead." 

So  he  summoned  this  man  to  his  throne 

And  issued  his  royal  decree : 
"  Uprear  me  a  temple  of  stone 
For  the  years  that  shall  be  ; 

"  Uprear  me  a  wonderful  shrine 

Where  '  the  faithful '  of  Allah  may  bow  ; 
And  glorious  meed  shall  be  thine  ; 
Here  record  I  the  vow." 
20 


MOSQUE   OF  THE  SULTAN  HASSAN  21 

Then  the  heart  of  the  builder  was  light 

As  was  ever  the  heart  of  a  man ; 
And  he  toiled  through  the  gloom  of  the  night, 

And  he  wrought  him  a  plan,  — 

A  plan  of  a  mosque  that  should  bind 
His  name  with  the  name  of  his  lord. 

So  the  slaves  brought  the  marble  they  mined, 
And  they  wrought  in  accord, 

Till  the  mosque  as  by  magic  upsprang 
In  its  symmetry  peerless  and  grand  ; 

And  the  praise  and  the  fame  of  it  rang 
Through  the  length  of  the  land. 

But  the  name  of  the  builder  was  cried 
Till  the  Caliph  grew  wroth  at  the  sound  ; 

"  Am  I  naught  ?  "  he  would  mutter  in  pride ; 
"  Am  I  less  than  a  hound  ; 

"  And  this  chiefest  of  upstarts  so  great 
He  eclipses  the  light  of  my  throne  ?  " 

Thus  the  seeds  of  a  pitiless  hate 
In  his  bosom  were  sown. 


22   MOSQUE   OF  THE  SULTAN  HASSAN 

Now  the  mosque  was  complete.     Without  peer 
Was  the  portal  majestic  and  tall  • 

The  minarets  tapering  sheer 
From  the  sweep  of  the  wall. 

In  the  court  was  a  fountain  that  flowed, 
And  its  pillars  were  cunningly  scrolled ; 

And  the  mambar  was  marble  that  glowed 
With  mosaics  of  gold. 

"  Call  the  builder  !  "  said  Sultan  Hassan  ; 

They  ran  at  the  word  of  their  lord  ; 
"  My  servant,"  he  thought,  as  they  ran, 

"  Now  shall  reap  his  reward." 

At  the  steps  of  the  throne  knelt  the  one 
\Vho  had  served  like  a  slave  at  the  soil ; 

Said  the  Caliph,  "  Thy  task-work  is  done, 
Here  is  meed  for  thy  toil ; 

"  Stretch   thy  hands  !    I  would   pay  thee   full 
well." 

The  builder  obeyed,  in  his  trust ; 
Then  a  scimitar  flashed,  and  they  fell 

Reeking  red  in  the  dust. 


MOSQUE   OF   THE  SULTAN  HASSAN  23 

"  No  more,"  said  the  Caliph  revered, 

"  I  would  have  thee  to  build.     I  decree 
It  is  honor  enough,  by  my  beard, 
To  have  builded  for  me  !  " 

By  Arabian  tomes  we  are  told 

He  was  just,  as  a  ruler  and  man,  — 

The  Caliph  of  Cairo  the  old, 
The  Sultan  Hassan. 


MELIK  THE  BLACK 

WHERE  has  the  Princess  gone  — 

The  Princess  Parizade  ? 
The  dazzling  glow  of  the  Orient  dawn 

Floods  down  through  the  garden  glade. 
She  is  not  in  the  room  where  the  air  is  sweet 

With  the  scent  of  the  attared  rose, 
And  the  tinkle  of  silver-sandaled  feet 

Like  a  brook  o'er  the  marble  flows ; 
She  is  not  in  the  mosque  nor  the  dim  kiosk, 

She  is  not  in  the  almond-close. 

Melik  the  black  stands  mute 

By  the  harem's  outer  door  ; 
Does  he  dream  of  the  sound  of  the  Sennar  flute, 

And  the  warm  Nile  nights  of  yore  ? 
Does  he  muse  on  the  happy,  bondless  days 

By  the  desert  fountains  cool, 
When  he  rode  his  barb  o'er  the  trackless  ways, 

Ere  he  came  to  be  the  tool 
24 


MELIK  THE  BLACK  2$ 

Of  the  loves  and  hates  in  the  palace  gates 
Of  the  treacherous  Istamboul  ? 

His  thoughts  are  not  afar 

In  the  wide,  free  Southern  land ; 
He  sees,  as  he  saw  'neath  the  paling  star, 

A  tiny  print  in  the  sand. 
There  hangs  the  slender  ladder  yet 

Where  the  daring  flight  was  made ; 
On  the  water-stair  the  ooze  and  wet 

Betray  where  the  boat  was  stayed  ; 
She  has  fled   o'er  the  main  from   her   gilded 
chain  — 

The  Princess  Parizade. 

And  shall  he  bide  to  face 

His  master's  merciless  wrath  ? 
Woe  on  the  soul  that  waits  for  grace 

In  a  maddened  tyrant's  path  ! 
But  list !  —  o'er  the  court's  mosaic  floor 

Creeps  one  with  a  panther  tread, 
Behind  the  form  at  the  harem  door, 

With  the  mournful,  low-drooped  head. 
A  dagger  bright  in  the  morning  light !  — 

And  Melik  the  black  lies  dead. 


IN  THE   HARARA 

UNCUMBERED  and  supine  I  lie, 
An  azure  dome  my  mimic  sky ; 
Smooth,  shining  walls  around  I  see, 
As  white  as  new-cut  ivory, 
Save  where  one  sinuous  purple  line 
Creeps  up  the  marble  like  a  vine. 
The  crystal  stream  that  o'er  me  runs 
Has  felt  the  glow  of  Syrian  suns, 
And  swift  through  all  my  being  flows, 
Not  the  keen  chill  of  Hermon  snows, 
But  such  a  latent  fire  as  sleeps 
Within  the  grape  on  Lebanon  steeps. 

Now  comes  my  genie  of  the  ring 
A  lighted  narghileh  to  bring ; 
Against  my  longing  lips  I  set 
Its  deftly  polished  tube  of  jet. 
The  quiet  water  in  the  bowl 
Seems  suddenly  to  own  a  soul ; 
26 


IN  THE   HARARA  2/ 

The  bubbles  form,  and  swell,  and  break, 
And  incoherent  murmurs  make, 
While  visions  fair  before  my  eyes 
In  upward-curling  clouds  arise  ; 
I  catch  the  soothing  scent  divine 
Of  Latakia  rich  and  fine. 

Oh,  is  it  strange  I  should  forget 

The  world  of  turmoil  and  of  fret ; 

For  one  sweet  hour  should  play  no  part, 

But  be  a  Syrian  to  the  heart ! 

Clasp  idleness  unto  my  breast, 

And  drain  the  very  dregs  of  rest ; 

Know  all  the  joy  that  Haroun  knew, 

And  feel  the  power  of  Timur  too  ! 

But  dreams  have  end,  and  once  again 

I  rouse  me  to  life's  real  domain, 

To  hold  forevermore  in  fee 

The  Orient's  charm  and  mystery. 


A   NILE   NIGHT. 

THE  wind  has  died  ;  to-day  we  sail  no  more 
O'er  river  reaches  widening  bright  or  wan  ; 

Languid  we  lie  beside  the  reedy  shore, 
And  night  draws  darkly  on. 

In  no  wise  strange  or  pagan  would  it  seem 
To  Pasht  or  Isis  now  to  bend  the  knee, 

There  broods  about  us,  in  day's  paling  beam, 
Such  vast  antiquity. 

Yonder  a  sacred  ibis,  grave  as  faith, 
Stands  like  a  statue  by  the  river  brink  ; 

And  mark  !  is  that  a  Libyan  lion's  wraith 
Come  to  the  stream  to  drink  ? 

A  wandering  minstrel  pipes  a  plaintive  strain, 
Then  slowly,  sadly,  lets  the  music  swoon ; 

While,  like  a  lovely  lotus,  once  again 
Flowers  the  Egyptian  moon. 
28 


A  NILE  NIGHT  29 

And  so  to  rest,  and  visions  weirdly  clear 
Of  priests,  of  kings,  of  gods  with  hoof  and 
horn, 

To  rouse  at  last  from  dreams  wherein  we  hear 
Great  Memnon  greet  the  morn. 


A   REED. 

WHOSO  shall  blow  this  slender  reed, 
On  swift  aerial  wings  will  speed, 
And  'neath  the  lofty  palm-boughs  stand 
Where  Nilus  lips  the  Libyan  sand. 

There  was  it  cut  and  shaped,  and  still 
Delicious  tremors  through  it  thrill,  - 
Low  and  mysterious  murmurings  drawn 
From  waves  on  some  mid-Afric  dawn. 

Within  its  hollow  heart  there  lies 
This  mystery  of  mysteries  ; 
Then  blow  and  test  the  tranced  spell, 
Morn-wrought  in  Music's  crucible  ! 
30 


THE   BRONZE   CHRIST. 

THE  monarch  looked  out  from  his  throne 
Where  the  Bosphorus  blends  with  the  Horn, 
And  he  saw  how  at  evening  and  morn 
The  people  would  prayerfully  bow 
To  figures  of  bronze  and  of  stone  ; 
And  he  cried,  as  he  smote  on  his  brow, 
"  They  worship  the  image  alone  j 
Forgot  is  the  Godhead  behind. 
Their  prayers  are  but  words  on  the  wind 
That  hither  and  thither  are  blown." 

Then  an  edict  went  forth  from  the  south 
To  the  north  of  the  empire  afar, 
And  a  herald  with  clamorous  mouth 
Proclaimed  it  in  hamlet  and  town, 
Till  the  folk  as  by  rumors  of  war 
Were  stirred,  or  by  famine  and  drouth, 
For  from  niche  and  from  altar  and  shrine 
The  Christ  and  the  Virgin  divine 
Must  be  cast  desecratingly  down. 


32  THE  BRONZE   CHRIST 

So  rage  slumbered  hot  in  the  heart 
In  Constantine's  city,  the  old  ; 
And  murmurs  waxed  loud  in  the  mart, 
And  the  tongues  of  the  people  grew  bold. 
But  the  monarch  was  firm ;  and  the  more, 
When  he  heard  of  the  stir  in  the  state, 
Was  his  spirit  alert  and  elate. 
And  naught  in  his  rashness  sufficed 
But  to  cry  to  the  guard  at  the  door, 
"  Thou  knowest  the  image  of  Christ 
Surmounting  the  palace's  gate  ; 
Go  thou,  take  thy  weapon  and  smite, 
In  the  emperor's  name  and  the  right  !  " 

The  guardsman  was  pallid  with  fear, 
For  he  knew  how  the  Christ  was  adored, 
But  he  only  could  bow  and  obey, 
Passing  forth  on  his  perilous  way 
W7ith  his  hand  gripping  tight  on  his  sword. 
By  the  gate  was  a  woman  in  prayer, 
Who,  when  she  beheld  his  intent, 
Cried  loud  to  the  heralding  air, 
Till  there  gathered  around  her  a  score. 
There  were  crones  in  decrepitude  bent, 
And  mothers,  and  maids  who  were  fair, 
To  beg  and  beseech  and  implore. 


THE  BRONZE   CHRIST  33 

But  he  gave  little  heed  to  their  cries, 
For  he  dreaded  the  emperor's  ire ; 
He  saw  not  the  light  in  their  eyes, 
The  baleful  and  dangerous  fire. 
The  ladder  was  scaled,  and  his  hand 
Uplifted  the  merciless  brand  ; 
A  glimmer  of  steel  and  a  blow, 
And  the  image  fell  clanging  below 
In  the  midst  of  the  sorrowful  band. 

In  a  moment  their  grief  was  forgot, 
And  a  frenzy  possessed  them  instead. 
Afar  from  the  doom-fated  spot 
Would  the  terrified  guardsman  have  fled  ; 
But  they  seized  him  in  madness,  and  tore 
His  limbs  in  their  maniac  might. 
And  dabbled  their  hands  in  his  gore, 
And  shouted  with  awful  delight 
That  Christ  was  avenged  evermore. 


A  tale  of  the  shadowy  past 
Obscured  by  the  mists  of  the  years, 
Where,  down  all  the  distance,  one  hears 
Fanatical  echoes  of  strife. 


34  THE  BRONZE   CHRIST 

Oh,  why,  from  the  first  to  the  last, 
Should  His  name,  that  the  spirit  reveres, 
Be  blent  with  the  clashing  of  spears 
Where  frenzy  and  slaughter  are  rife  ! 

Love,  love  was  the  creed  that  He  taught, 
And  peace,  perfect  peace,  everywhere  ; 
The  past  that  is  dead  is  as  naught, 
The  present  and  future  are  fair. 
Could  we  but  see  over  the  tomb 
The  flowers  of  Christ's  tenderness  bloom, 
Grand,  grand  were  the  ages  to  come, 
For  the  voices  of  strife  would  be  dumb ! 


MIRAGE 

"  BEHOLD,  behold  the  palms  !  "  we  cried  ; 

Our  lips  weie  parched  as  though  by  fire  ; 
Forward  we  spurred  with  swinging  stride, 

In  madness  of  desire. 

"  There  will  be  water  cool !  "  we  said, 

"  And  shade  to  shield  from  blazing  heat ; 

What  bliss  to  bathe  the  burning  head, 
And  oh,  the  rest,  how  sweet !  " 

But  suddenly  —  the  palms  were  gone  ! 

A  scorching  breeze  our  swart  brows  fanned ; 
Before  us  still  stretched  on  and  on 

A  blinding  waste  of  sand. 
35 


THE  PRAYER 

THE  slender  leaves  of  the  acacia-trees 
Hung  parched   and   quivering  in  the   desert 
breeze. 

Straight  westward,  as  a  starving  rook  might  fly, 
One  pyramid's  dark  apex  cut  the  sky  • 

While  sharp  against  the  sapphire  east  were  set 
Resplendent  dome  and  soaring  minaret. 

Beside  the  way,  upon  his  prayer-mat  prone, 
A  turbaned  suppliant  made  his  plaint  alone. 

The  hot  sun  smote  upon  his  humbled  head ; 
"  Allah,  have  pity  /"  —  this  was  all  he  said. 

His  faltering  tongue  forgot  the  accustomed  art, 
And  laid  his  unvoiced  grief  on  Allah's  heart. 
36 


IN   GILEAD 

THIS  is  the  land  of  Gilead,  but  where  is  the 

fabled  balm, 
Unless  it  lie  in  the  placid  sky,  in  the  sapphire 

leagues  of  calm  ? 
Here    grows    no    balsam-bearing    bough,   no 

fruitage-yielding  palm. 

The  dark-browed  sons  of  the  desert,  they  tend 

the  flocks  that  feed 
On  the  hillside  slopes  where  the  myrtle  gleams, 

and  the  mustard  wings  its  seed, 
And   they  pluck   the   reed   by   the   Jabbok's 

marge  and  pipe  while  the  waters  speed. 

In  spring  is  the  oleander  fair  with  a  faint  pink 

flush  of  bloom  ; 
The  jackal  makes  his  home  with  kings  in  the 

deepest  rock-cut  tomb, 
And  the  fierce  hyena's  cry  is  weird  in  the  mid- 

night's  purple  gloom. 


38  IN  GILEAD 

And   thou,    O   Ramoth-Gilead,   how  lies    thy 

splendor  low ! 
Though   still  does   Jedur's   fountain   gush   in 

never-failing  flow, 
And  purl  through  sweet  pomegranate-bowers 

and  olive  groves  below. 

Within   thy  walls,  O  J crash,  still    stands  thy 

mighty  gate 
That  oft  saw  Roman  legions  pass  in  gilded 

pomp  of  state  j 
Now  they  are  gone,  and  gone  thy  power,  yet 

thou  in  death  art  great. 

Look  down,  look  down,  from  Gilead !  There 
Jordan  winds  its  way, 

And  silvery  bright  the  Dead  Sea  sleeps  be 
neath  the  tropic  day ; 

Look  up,  look  up,  where  Nebo  stands,  a  bul 
wark  vast  and  gray ! 

Yet  who  would  bide  in  Gilead,  though  cloud 
less  be  her  skies, 

Though  stair  on  stair  through  crystal  air  her 
massive  mountains  rise  ? 

Beneath  the  glorious  western  star  our  blessed 
Gilead  lies ! 


THE   PALM   OF  JENIN 

How  fair  has  been  the  bland  bright  day  !  how 

fair 

The  emerald  hill-sweep,  and  the  blue  of  air 
Pulsating   o'er   the   earth  j   the  long   sweet 

hours 
Enlinked  with  rainbow  chains  of  honeyed 

flowers  ; 
Flowers    on   the   slopes,   the    plains,    flowers 

everywhere, 

Anemone,  primrose,  and  poppy-bowers  ! 
Was  ever  any  day  before  so  fair  ? 

And  now  that  all  the  west  is  one  warm  line, 
The  ruby  hue  of  lip-enthralling  wine, 

And  now  that  flocks  wend  fold-ward,  bleat 
ing  low, 
And    brown-limbed    pipers   follow,    footing 

slow, 

Will  we  upon  the  velvet  sod  recline, 
39 


4O  THE  PALM  OF  JENIN 

And  let  across  our  brows  the  cool  breeze 

blow, 
And  turn  our  faces  toward  the  red  sky-line. 

Lo !  in  the  sunset's  heart  one  patriarch  palm, 
A  silhouette  upon  the  evening  calm, 

Catches  the  wandering  eye  that  fain  would 

rest 

Upon  the  changing  wonders  of  the  west ; 
And  while  a  bird  uplifts  a  twilight  psalm 

Above  his  mate  in  her  leaf-hidden  nest, 
We  watch  the  black-etched  frondage   of  the 
palm. 

Companionless  and  solitary  now, 

It   once    had   fellows   straight   of  trunk  and 

bough, 
And  there  were  gardens  glad  with  bloom 

around 
Where  fountains  tossed  their  silver  coin  of 

sound ; 
Then   came   the   desert's   son   with   turbaned 

brow 

And  cast  a  blight  upon  the  fertile  ground. 
Alas  !  one  palm-tree  only  greets  us  now. 


THE  PALM  OF  JENIN  41 

And  yet  this  palm's  firm  bole  says,  "  I  endure  ! 
I  wait  the  rising  day  that  dawneth  sure, 

The  day  when  Islam's  might  shall  be  o'er- 
thrown, 

And  all  its  prowess  lie  as  shattered  stone  ; 
Then  will  my  lovely  land  again  be  pure, 

My  hills  again  with  teeming  harvests  groan  ; 
For  such  a  glorious  day  do  I  endure." 

Would  that  the  coming  morn,  O  stately  tree, 

Such  dear  deliverance  might  bring  to  thee ! 
But  still  the  darkness  deepens.     We  behold 
The  new  moon's  scimitar  of  jealous  gold. 

The  Crescent  reigns  ;  the  fathomless  To-be 
Thy  fate  within  its  sealed  heart  doth  hold, 

And  Time  alone  can  speak,  O  noble  tree ! 


SPRING   IN   GALILEE 

ONCE  more  the  yearly  miracle  has  made 

The  patient  earth  rejoice. 

Came  it  when  night's  purpureal  shade 

Hid  heaven's  canopy,  the  loving  voice 

That  bade  the  green  grass  break 

Its  shining  sheath  and  shake 

Its  myriad  spears  ?   that  bade   the   flowering 

brush 

With  bloomy  ardors  flush  ? 
That  spoke  with  such  a  thrill, 
The  blossom-beacons  flamed  from  hill  to  hill  ? 

Man  heard  it  not,  but  listening  nature  heard 
The  swift-reviving  word  ; 
Heard,  and  with  one  glad  leap 
Sprang  from  forgetful  sleep, 
Till  now  an  emerald,  undulating  main 
Is  wide  Esdraelon's  plain, 
Whereon,  while  bland  winds  blow, 
The  clumsy  camel-craft  drift  to  and  fro. 
42 


SPXIArG  IN  GALILEE  43 

And  orchard-girdled  Nazareth  once  more 
Kindles  at  heart  with  throbs  of  young  desire  ; 
Here  are  the  turbaned  merchants  come  from 

Tyre 

And  ancient  Acre,  with  their  precious  store. 
And  through  the  bright  bazaars, 
With  heavy-lidded  eyes  like  drowsing  stars, 
A  dark-robed,  dusky  desert-minstrel  goes, 
Thrumming  upon  his  single-stringed  lyre, 
And  lilting  songs  that  swell  to  joyful  close. 

And  Nazareth's  daughters,  radiantly  fair, 

With  midnight  woven  in  their  braided  hair, 

And  on  their  cheeks  the  rose  and  olive  blent, 

And  in  their  eyes  a  prisoned  Orient, 

Come,  with  their  jars  a-poise 

On  queenly  heads,  down  to  the  Virgin's  Well ; 

And  there  their  griefs  and  joys 

In  mellow  monotone  they  tell, 

Bending  in  graceful  languor  o'er  the  pool 

That  mirrors  them  in  waters  clear  and  cool. 

Could  we  but  roll 

The  crowding  centuries  backward  like  a  scroll, 

These  paths  would  know  His  feet, 


44  SPRING  IN  GALILEE 

And  hear  His  kindly  voice  so  calm  and  sweet. 
He  must  have  loved  the  spring,  — 
The  resurrection,  the  re-bourgeoning, 
The  quickened  pulse  in  nature's  every  vein, 
The  skyward-mounting  strain. 
Fairer  to  us  is  all  this  fairness  now, 
That  He  once  trod 

Where  swaying  poppies  burn  above  the  sod, 
And    stood  on  yonder   mountain's    hallowed 
brow. 

Here  is  the  spring-time  fraught 

With  larger  meanings  than  on  other  earth ; 

A  deeper  sense  of  a  diviner  birth, 

For  all  humanity,  is  caught ; 

And  broader  life  we  see 

When  spring  illumes  the  slopes  of  Galilee. 


A   SONNET  OF   SONNETS 
I 

THE   NILE 

NURSE  of  old  Egypt,  year  on  circling  year,  - 
When  parched  and  fevered  by  the  heat  she 

lies 
Beneath  a  dazzling  arch  of  rainless  skies, 

And  e'en  the  green  acacia  buds  grow  sere, 

How  dost  thou  brim  a  cup  supremely  dear 
And  hold  it  to  her  lips,  until  her  sighs 
Have  ceased,  and  all  before  her  ancient  eyes 

Is  fair  as  erst  it  was,  or  far  or  near ! 

Whence   hast   thou   this   fine   potion?      Is   it 

drawn 

From  cavernous  founts  that  never  see  the  dawn 
Beyond  swart  Nubia's  furthermost  confines  ? 
So  potent  yet  mysterious  it  seems, 
Its  source  might  be  within  a  heaven  of  dreams 
Upon   whose    peaks    no   earthly    sunbeam 
shines. 

45 


46  AN  ARAB  BOY 


II 


AN    ARAB    BOY 

THIS  brown-skinned  boy  whose  hair  in  heavy 

curl 

About  his  low  and  wide-set  forehead  falls, 
And  who  "  baksheesh  "  vociferously  calls, 

Whose  parted  lips  reveal  a  flash  of  pearl, 

Is  come  of  those  who  in  the  rush  and  swirl 
Of  battle  shout,  at  frenzied  intervals, 
" Allah  il Allah"  till  the  sky's  blue  walls 

Above  them  seem  to  madly  reel  and  whirl. 

Ah  !  what  a  lustre  fires  his  handsome  eye  ! 
Already  gleams  the  fate-implanted  spark 

One  day  may  kindle  to  a  lurid  glow  : 
His  mouth  is  set  for  some  barbaric  cry, 

His  lithe  frame  quivers  wrathfully,  and  mark ! 
His  hand  is  clenched  for  a  fanatic  blow. 


AN  EGYPTIAN  NIGHT  47 


III 


AN   EGYPTIAN    NIGHT 

THE  tropic  night  has  reached  its  splendid  noon  ; 

What    magic   has   bewitched   the   wayward 
breeze 

In  winter's  heart  to  scatter  balms  like  these, 
And  wake  the  birds  to  ecstasies  of  tune  ? 
No  dream  is  this  of  occidental  June, 

For  mark  yon  minaret  that  soars  the  seas 

Of  silver  air,  and  trace  the  soft  degrees 
Of  shade  beneath  the  palms  that  greet   the 
moon. 

Like  undulating  serpent-coils  unrolled, 

The  Nile  sends  down  its  tide  of  tawny  gold ; 

While  with  impassive,  never-drowsing  lids, 
And  scarred,  yet  smiling,  unbetraying  lips, 
Holding  their  speech  forever  in  eclipse, 

The  dark  Sphinx  crouches  by  the  pyramids. 


48  A  HEAD  OF  ISIS 


IV 


A   HEAD   OF    ISIS 

WHAT  suppliant  thought  thee  sacred  long  ago, 
O  faultless,  chilly  lips  of  sculptured  stone, 
Making  before  thee  tearful  plaint  and  moan, 

Beseeching  thee  to  ease  her  bitter  woe  ? 

Was  love  unkind  ?  —  alas  !  we  may  not  know. 
Above   her  tomb  the  sands  are  piled  and 

blown ; 

And  thou,  —  thou  hast  no  longer  shrine,  nor 
throne, 

Nor  worshipers  before  thee  bending  low. 

Thou  art  a  wraith  of  deity  downcast ; 
She  that  besought  thee  is  forgotten  dust, 

But  Love,  or  kind  or  cruel,  still  lives  on  : 
Shall  we  leave  aught  to  the  engulfing  past 
Save  empty  tombs  disfigured  by  grim  rust, 
Or  lifeless  masks  for  men  to  gaze  upon  ? 


THE  PALMS  49 


THE   PALMS 

ABOVE  the  sand-heaped  grave  where  Memphis 
lies 

Impassive  and  disconsolate  they  tower ; 

The  peerless  skies  above  them  never  lower, 
The  desert  winds  intone  their  requiem  sighs  ; 
As  decade  after  fleeting  decade  dies, 

They  brood   upon   the    past,  —  its   mighty 
power ; 

To-day  is  naught ;  their  life  is  but  a  dower 
Of  vain  regrets,  —  of  haunting  memories. 

At   dusk   they   change.      By   Titan   hands   is 

reared 
Out  of  the  sable  quarries  of  the  night 

A  phantom  city,  silent,  sombre,  lone  ; 
Lo  !  in  their  stead  loom  temples  vast  and  weird, 
Bearded  colossi  rising  height  on  height 
Around  great  Rameses  and  his  spectral 
throne. 


5O  SAHARA 

VI 

SAKARA1 

A  BLAZING  reach  of  undulating  sand  ; 

No  cooling  shade,  no  breeze  save  one  that 
blows 

O'er  leagues  of  desert,  burning  in  repose  ; 
A  cloudless  sky  by  fiery  arches  spanned  ; 
One  crumbling  pyramid,  grim,  gray,  and  grand, 

Holding  within  its  heart  the  tombed  woes 

Of    dateless    centuries,   whose    pangs    and 

throes 
Are  vaguer  than  the  shapes  of  shadow-land. 

Could  but  the  serried  ages  backward  sweep, 
The  desolating  desert  take  its  own, 

And  some  bright-gloried  Memphian  morn 
ing  dawn, 
Yet  should  we  see,  where  now  the  sand  lies 

deep, 

Death  regnant  on  his  immemorial  throne, 
With    silence   round   him   like   a   mantle 
drawn. 

1  Sakara,  —  the  necropolis  of  Memphis. 


A  SHELL  51 

VII 

A   SHELL 

WHAT  liquid  music  this  white  whorl  hath  heard, 
And  what  tempestuous,  drowning  sympho 
nies, 
Forever  hearkening  at  the  changeful  sea's 

Great  lips  to  catch  the  faintest  whispered  word  ! 

Still  is  the  sense  of  sound  within  it  stirred  ;  — 
Is  it  the  echo  of  the  flute-toned  breeze, 
The  siren's  song,  the  waves'  wild  melodies, 

Or  none  of  these,  —  or  all  divinely  blurred  ? 

Lend  thou  attentive  ear !     This  vocal  shell 
Hath   listed  Egypt's  heart-throbs,   and  the 

sound 
Of  Nile's  mysterious  voice  whose  murmur 

links 
The  known  and  the  unknown  that  hath  no 

bound  ; 
Perchance,  —  who  knows  ?  —  if  thou  but  heed- 

est  well, 

Thou    mayest    learn    the   secret    of    the 
Sphinx ! 


52  MEMNON 


VIII 

MEMNON 

WHY  dost  thou  hail  with  songful  lips  no  more 
The   glorious   sunrise  ?  —  Why  is   Memnon 

mute, 

Whose  voice  was  tuned  as  is  the  silvery  flute 
When  Thebes  sat  queenly  by  the  Nile's  low 

shore  ? 

The  chained  slaves  sweat  no  longer  at  the  oar, 
No   longer  shrines  are  raised  to  man  and 

brute, 

Yet  dawn  by  dawn  the  sun  thou  didst  salute 
Gives  thee  the  greeting  that  it  gave  of  yore. 

What  nameless  spell  is  on  thee  ?     Dost  thou 

wait 

(Hoping  and  yearning  through  the  years  for 
lorn) 
The  old-time  splendor  and  the  regal  state, 

The  glory  and  the  power  of  empire  shorn  ? 
Oh,  break  the  silence  deep,  defying  fate, 
And  cry  again  melodious  to  the  morn  ! 


THE   OASIS  53 


IX 


THE   OASIS 

DOES  sight  deceive  ?  are  yonder  palms  outlined 
Against  the  lurid  sky  a  desert  dream  ? 
How  often  has  a  fair,  elusive  gleam 

Of  foliage  lured  us  !    Now  the  freshening  wind 

Fans  their  slim  fronds,  and  shadows  cool  and 

kind 

Await  before.     The  camels  scent  the  stream 
Of  welcome  water.    Soon  the  day-orb's  beam 

Our  hot  and  aching  eyes  no  more  will  blind. 

How  soft  the  greensward  is  !  and  oh,  what  bliss 
To  feel  upon  our  lips  the  water's  kiss ! 

And  hark !  as  clear  as  Hafiz  heard  in  Pharz, 
The  nightingale  salutes  the  day's  calm  close, 
The  while  wre  seek  the  guerdon  of  repose, 

Our  tent  the  night,  our  lights  the  watchful 
stars. 


54  A  DERVISH 


X 


A   DERVISH 

LIKE  Joseph's  coat  his  tattered  raiment  shows 

A  rainbow  blending  of  its  countless  hues ; 

The  desert  dust  has  stained  his  pilgrim  shoes, 
His  frame  is  gaunt,  yet  on  and  on  he  goes. 
Few  are  the  hours  his  weary  limbs  repose, 

Few  are  the  drops  that  wet  his  earthen  cruse ; 

The  path  is  long,  the  sharp  flints  cut  and 

bruise, 
And  yet  at  heart  a  dreamful  rest  he  knows. 

His  visions  are  of  calm  celestial  days, 

Of  peaceful  groves  of  palm  beyond  the  skies  ; 
Forever  shine  before  his  ardent  eyes 

The  fountained  heavenly  courts  through  golden 
haze : 

He  deems  the  more  he  bears  on  mortal  ways 
The  greater  his  reward  in  Paradise. 


BUBASTIS  55 


XI 


BUBASTIS 

HERE  were  majestic  temples  reared  of  yore, 

Vast  marble  halls  and  columned  porticos  ; 

Here  maidens  garlanded  the  sacred  rose, 
And  throngs  passed  singing  by  the  river  shore. 
Hither  long  barques  pipe-playing  pilgrims  bore, 

And  wine  ran  bright  until  the  dim  night's 
close ; 

Here    men    sought    solace    for   all    mortal 

woes,  — 
The  goddess  held  divine  forevermore. 

Long   stilled   is  now  each   priest's   prophetic 

tongue, 

Sekhet  has  fallen  from  her  empire  grand, 
In  formless  heaps  of  dust  her  shrines  are 

traced  ; 

Relentlessly  sweeps  in  the  shrouding  sand, 
And  where  the  sound  of  choiring  voices  rung, 
The  jackals  howl  forlornly  o'er  the  waste. 


56  AT  HELIOPOLIS 


XII 


AT   HELIOPOLIS 

A  PATIENT  ox  plods  round  a  water-wheel  \ 

A    fervent   Moslem   breathes   his   noonday 
vows  ; 

In  clover  fields  beneath  the  tamarisk  boughs 
The  heavy-lidded,  clumsy  camels  kneel. 
The  whirling  swallows  sound   their  plaintive 
peal; 

Repulsive  beggars  by  the  roadside  drowse ; 

One  hoary  obelisk  lifts  its  scarred  brows 
Whereon  of  old  a  monarch  set  his  seal. 

Of  all  the  stately  monoliths  that  here 
Once  tapered  skyward,  this  slim  shaft  and 

gray 

Alone  remains,  defying  hoary  time. 
Beyond  cold  seas,  in  many  an  alien  clime, 
Its  comrades  mark  the  birth  and  death  of 

day, 
And  exiled,  mourn  the  bland  Egyptian  year. 


THE  MUEZZIN  57 


XIII 

THE   MUEZZIN 

IT  is  the  swift,  sweet,  Orient  sunset  hour ; 

And  o'er  the  city,  as  the  daylight  dies, 

In  melancholy  monotone  one  cries 
An  exhortation  from  a  tall  mosque  tower. 
The  almond-tree  is  whitening  into  flower, 

A  vernal  gladness  on  the  garden  lies  ; 

There  is  a  softness  in  the  wind  that  sighs 
Amid  the  branches  of  the  orange-bower. 

Two  lovers  whisper  in  the  perfumed  air ; 

A  bird's  clear  melody  is  heard  above ; 
He  tells  the  story  to  his  feathered  fair 

The  happy  twain  below  are  dreaming  of. 
That  distant  call  proclaims  the  hour  of  prayer ; 

Their  murmured  vows  proclaim  the  hour  of 
love. 


58  THE  SPHINX 


XIV 

THE   SPHINX 

COUCHANT  upon  the  illimitable  sand, 

Like  some  huge  Libyan  lion,  human-faced, 
The  solemn  march  of  centuries  thou  hast 
traced 

With  brooding  eyes  that  seem  to  understand 

The  secrets  of  the  ages,  —  whose  the  hand 
That  rolls  the  stars  along  the  ethereal  waste, 
And    for   what   purpose    suffering    man    is 
placed 

Upon  this  orb,  to  be  or  blessed  or  banned. 

In  elder  years  did  suppliants  bend  the  knee 
Before  thine  awful  presence  reverently, 

Beseeching  answer  with  adoring  breath  j 
Yet  wert  thou  mute,  as  thou  wilt  ever  be, 
Enigma,  like  our  mortal  destiny, 

Inscrutable  as  is  the  face  of  death. 


A   DAMASCUS   BLADE 

THIS  crescent-shaped  and  flexile  blade, 

With  time-dulled,  tawny  gold  inlaid, 

'Neath  skies  that  knew  the  Eastern  star 

Was  found  within  an  old  bazaar. 

I  mind  me  well,  how,  passing  by, 

We  caught  the  merchant's  gleaming  eye,.. 

Where  in  his  dim  recess  he  sat 

Upon  his  precious  Persian  mat. 

Urbane  he  was  and  grave  of  mien, 

This  patriarchal  Damascene ; 

He  lured  us  to  his  small  divan, 

A  serving-boy  for  coffee  ran, 

And,  while  we  sipped,  he  laid  before 

Our  widening  eyes  his  wondrous  store. 

There  from  worn  sheaths,  once  bright  with  gilt, 
We  saw  protrude  the  jeweled  hilt ; 
There  ivory  from  Bengal  brought 
With  Saracenic  art  was  wrought ; 
And  there  keen  steel  we  looked  upon 
59 


6O  A  DAMASCUS  BLADE 

That  like  moon-burnished  water  shone. 

But  most  of  all  on  me  laid  hold 

This  blade,  with  letters  strangely  scrolled, 

Some  curious  Koran  text,  no  doubt, 

Bidding  the  warrior's  heart  be  stout,  — 

And,  when  we  took  our  way  afar, 

I  bore  it  from  the  old  bazaar. 

He  had  a  deadly-supple  wrist 

Who  wielded  it  of  yore,  I  wist ; 

And  oft,  mayhap,  in  goodly  stead, 

He  flashed  it  o'er  his  turbaned  head, 

When  some  Crusader,  huge  and  grim, 

In  the  thick  press  confronted  him. 

Perchance  his  zealous  soul  now  roves 

In  peaceful  paradisial  groves  ; 

His  blade  —  I  wonder  does  he  know  ?  — 

Is  nothing  but  a  curio  ! 

Ah  !  what  a  fate  its  fate  has  been,  — 

The  blade  that  cleft  for  Saladin  ! 


THE  GOLDEN   STREAM 

CHRYSORRHOAS 

WHY  thy  mellow  name  we  know  not, 

Given  by  the  Greeks  of  old, 
For  the  ancient  records  show  not 

If  thy  sands  were  bright  with  gold. 

Clear  thou  art :  no  nectar  clearer 
E'er  a  pilgrim's  praises  won  ; 

And  the  Prophet  held  thee  dearer 
Than  the  wine  of  Lebanon. 

Men  with  solemn  rites  adored  thee 
Where  thou  sprang'st,  at  crystal  birth, 

Strong  as  though  a  god  had  poured  thee 
From  the  urns  of  under-earth. 

Fairer  gardens  there  were  never 
Gazed  upon  by  Shekh  or  Shah, 
61 


62  THE   GOLDEN  STREAM 

Than  where  thou  dost  rill  forever 
Through  the  meads  of  Bessima. 

There  the  apricot  blooms  brightly, 
And  the  fig-tree  never  fails  ; 

And  within  the  poplars  nightly 
Sing  the  Eastern  nightingales. 

There  with  Love  in  calm  seclusion, 
What  were  life  but  bliss  supreme  ! 

All  its  trials  but  illusion, 
All  its  tumult  but  a  dream  ! 

Golden  river,  —  stream  elysian, 
With  thy  love-enchanted  shore, 

Through  my  memory,  like  a  vision, 
Flow  thou  on  forevermore ! 


A   KORAN 

MOROCCO-BOUND,  before  me  lies 
A  curious  volume  that  I  prize  j 
Upon  the  final  page  of  it, 
In  eastern  character,  is  writ 
The  name  of  him  who  found  therein 
A  shield  against  the  shafts  of  sin. 
With  long  and  arduous  toil  I  spell 
Slow,  syllable  by  syllable  : 
"Abdul  Hafiz,"  —  the  name  I  see, — 
"  Hegira-year  nine  eighty-three." 

My  ardent  fancy  pictures  him 
Within  a  court-yard  cool  and  dim ; 
Around  him,  grouped  with  studious  air, 
Are  many  a  tiny  turbaned  pair 
Who  con  aloud  their  tasks  in  low, 
Soft  voices  while  the  dull  hours  go, 
Or  catch  from  off  his  bearded  lip 
The  hoarded  wisdom  he  lets  slip, 
63 


64  A   KORAN 

His  dark  eye  often  resting  on 
The  very  book  I  gaze  upon. 

And  though  I  may  not  read  its  page 
As  did  the  ancient  Moslem  sage, 
Yet  hath  the  Orient  tome  for  me 
More  charm  than  mere  antiquity. 
It  seems  to  widely  backward  throw 
The  barrier  doors  of  long  ago  ; 
And  centuried  corridors  along 
I  hear  the  lute-like  sound  of  song ; 
What  touched  a  chord  in  Hafiz'  heart 
Must  have  of  good  some  golden  part ! 


THE  CALIPH'S   PILLAR 

IN  the  lotus-land,  ere  the  crescent's  splendor 
t  Had  waned  'neath  the  arch  of  the  rainless 

skies, 

A  Caliph  ruled  as  the  faith's  defender, 
Brave,  benignant,  and  grave,  and  wise. 

To  him  came  one  who  outcried,  "  O  Master, 
I  have  reared  a  mosque  where  the  highways 
meet, 

And  the  pillared  court  lacks  one  pilaster, 
And  so  is  closed  to  the  pilgrim's  feet. 

"  Oh,  hearken  thou  to  my  prayer  in  pity  ! 

In  the  name  of  Allah  give  gracious  aid ! 
Let  a  pillar,  borne  from  the  holy  city, 

Fill  the  empty  arch  of  the  colonnade." 

Then    the    Caliph   said,    "  Thou    hast   wisely 
spoken, 

65 


66  THE   CALIPH'S  PILLAR 

From  the  Prophet's  home  shall  the  column 

be, 

And  I,  in  search  of  the  sacred  token, 
Will  journey  to  Mecca,  beyond  the  sea." 

So  his  patient  way  o'er  the  wastes  he  wended, 
Till  he  reached  the  place  of  the  Prophet's 
birth, 

And  there  in  worship  his  brow  he  bended 
At  the  holiest  shrine  of  the  Moslem  earth. 

And  when  he  had  bathed  at  the  healing  foun 
tain, 

And  humbly  bowed  at  the  blessed  shrine, 
And  when  he  had  knelt  on  the  hallowed  moun 
tain, 
He  sought  a  shaft  from  a  marble  mine. 

He  found  one  flawless  as  alabaster, 

That  gleamed  in  the  glow  of  the  Arab  sun, 

And  he  cried  aloud  to  the  fair  pilaster, 
"  The  shining  goal  of  my  search  is  won  ! 

"  Arise,  O  column,  arise,  O  column  !  "  — 
Thus  twice  he  called,  but  he  called  in  vain  ; 


THE   CALIPH'S  PILLAR  6? 

Then  he  raised  his  lash,  and  in  accents  solemn, 
As  he  smote  the  marble,  he  cried  again : 

"  In  the  name  of  Allah  thy  bondage  sunder, 
And    swift    to    the  land    of   the   Nile  take 

flight!" 

And  lo  !  in  the  eyes  of  the  throng  this  won 
der,  — 
The  smitten  column  was  lost  to  sight. 

And  when  to  his  mosque  went  the  builder  faring 
In  Egypt  far,  at  the  next  day's  verge, 

He  found  the  beautiful  pillar  bearing 

The  writhing  mark  of  the  Caliph's  scourge. 

The  years  are  waves  on  the  tide  of  ages ; 

Builder  and  Caliph  alike  are  clay ; 
And  empty  names  on  the  past's  gray  pages 

Are  all  they  seem  to  the  world  to-day. 

But  the  mosque  still  stands  with  its  smitten 
pillar, 

And  men  still  press  through  its  arching  gate, 
To  kneel  in  prayer,  as  the  air  grows  stiller, 

And  murmur,  "Allah  alone  is  great  /" 


SHERBET 

F.    D.    S. 

FRIEND,  ere  the  golden  hours  decline, 
Enlink  your  loving  arm  with  mine, 
And  let  me  lead  your  willing  feet 
Through  maze  on  maze  of  winding  street, 
To  where,  beyond  the  gateway,  lies 
A  bowery  garden-paradise. 
Each  strident  noise  that  grates  or  jars 
We  '11  leave  within  the  packed  bazaars  ; 
For  us  the  springing  fount  will  show 
The  blending  colors  of  its  bow ; 
For  us  the  poplars  will  display 
Their  changing  silvery  green  and  gray ; 
And  neither  voice  nor  lute  will  tire 
Till  stars  the  dreams  of  night  inspire. 

And  while  in  idleness  we  drowse 
Beneath  the  bloom-sweet  citron  boughs, 
One,  sandaled  as  with  sleep,  will  bear 
A  draught  to  lay  the  wraith  of  care. 
68 


SHERBET  69 

The  rare  Damascus  rose's  wine 
Will  lend  to  it  a  flavor  fine, 
And  tides  of  crimson  will  impart 
As  rich  as  dye  the  blossom's  heart. 
Clear  ice  the  brimming  cup  will  cool, 
Cut  from  some  flawless  mountain  pool 
On  Hermon's  massive  shoulder,  far 
Above  the  huts  of  Kerf  Hawar ; 
And  oh,  what  fancies  as  we  drink 
Will  greet  us  at  the  beaker's  brink  ! 

Before  our  eyes  will  gleam  and  glance 
The  woven  threads  of  old  romance,  — 
Those  fabrics  fair  that  never  fade, 
Spun  by  the  brave  Scheherezade. 
And  we  will  list  the  tranced  tales 
Of  plaintive  Shiraz  nightingales, 
Bemoaning  love  around  the  tomb 
Where  Hafiz  sleeps  in  scented  gloom. 
His  exile  will  Firdausi  tell, 
And  Sadi  weave  his  blossom-spell, 
While  one  will  chant  in  liquid  line 
His  rapturous  praises  of  the  vine,  — 
Omar,  whose  fame  the  years  prolong, 
The  zenith-star  of  Persian  song. 


70  SHERBET 

No  vintage-draught  soe'er,  compressed 
From  the  broad  bosom  of  the  West, 
Can  yield  the  keen  delight  of  this 
Enthralling,  roseate  cup  of  bliss. 
Then  come,  O  friend  ;  quaff  deep  with  me  ! 
And  Poesy  our  pledge  shall  be. 


THE  MINSTREL 

HE  played  on  the  single  string 

Of  a  strange  lute  warped  and  old, 
And  sang  and  sang  till  the  gray  walls  rang 

To  the  ditty  weird  he  trolled. 
Sweet  was  the  languid  air, 

The  sun  was  hot  and  high, 
And  ruby-red  the  pomegranates  spread 

Their  bloom  to  the  Syrian  sky. 

A  turban  green  he  wore, 

And  a  flowing  robe  of  white  : 
With  a  rhythmic  grace  he  moved,  and  his  face 

Was  black  as  the  Nubian  night. 
Why  had  he  strayed  from  the  clime 

Where  the  scorching  siroc  blows, 
To  sing  in  the  bowers  of  the  citron  flowers 

And  the  red  Damascus  rose  ? 

I  can  but  think  he  was  one 
Of  that  dusky,  mythic  band 
71 


72  THE  MINSTREL 

Who  weave  dark  spells  in  the  fountained  dells 

Of  the  swart  Arabian  land  ; 
A  genie,  slave  of  a  ring, 

A  roamer  of  earth  and  air, 
At  the  will  of  some  young  Aladdin  come 

To  snare  with  a  fatal  snare. 

His  visage  haunts  me  still, 

Haunts  in  the  height  of  noon, 
And  again  upfloats  in  wild  low  notes 

His  mystic  Arabic  croon ; 
It  lures  me  there  once  more 

Where  the  silvery  Pharpar  flows, 
And  I  stray  in  the  bowers  of  the  citron  flowers 

And  the  red  Damascus  rose  ! 


A   PRAYER   CARPET 

I  KNOW  not  when  in  Daghestan 
He  lived,  the  skillful  artisan, 
Who  wove  in  some  mysterious  way. 
This  fabric  where  the  colors  play 
Across  the  woof  in  rainbow  chase, 
Or  meet  and  link  and  interlace. 

Nor  do  I  know  what  suppliant  knees 
Once  pressed  these  yielding  symmetries, 
The  while  the  turbaned  brow  was  turned 
Toward  Mecca,  and  the  soul  that  yearned, 
Borne  by  the  rapt  muezzin  cry, 
Soared,  bird-like,  up  the  tranquil  sky. 

But  this  I  know,  —  foot  ne'er  shall  press 
Its  worship-hallowed  loveliness, 
For  still  about  it  dumbly  clings 
A  subtle  sense  of  holy  things, 
And  woven  in  the  meshes  there 
Are  strands  of  vow  and  shreds  of  prayer. 
73 


74  A   PRAYER   CARPET 

With  kindling  morning  beams  the  sun 

Its  blended  colors  shines  upon ; 

The  mosque  domes  catch  the  rays,  and  lo ! 

In  loitering  lines  the  camels  go. 

A  fountain  flings  a  silver  jet ; 

A  palm-tree  cuts  a  silhouette. 

But  when  night  lids  the  eye  of  day, 
And  sunset  glories  fade  away, 
My  fancy  shapes  a  fervent  man 
From  shadows  on  the  Daghestan. 
Thus,  in  its  compass  small,  I  see 
The  Orient  in  epitome. 


THE  SUN  AND  THE  NEW  MOON 

IN  all  its  majesty  of  light  revealed, 
The  vision-dazzling  sun  is  Allah's  shield  ; 
While  slender,  keen,  unmarred  by  flaw  or  scar, 
The  fair  new  moon  is  Allah's  scimitar. 
75 


HADETH   THE   MARONITE 

ON  the  breeze-kissed  mountain  brow, 

On  the  brow  of  Lebanon, 
Girt  by  the  vine  and  bough, 

It  looks  toward  the  western  sun  ; 
It  looks  toward  the  sun,  and  the  sea 

Blue  below  and  afar, 
On  the  olive  groves  and  mulberry, 

Gray  old  Der-el-Kamar. 

The  well-tilled  terraces  reach 
The  fronting  slopes  adown ; 

In  spring  the  pink  of  the  peach 
Bourgeons  in  orchards  brown  ; 

And  the  Eastern  nightingale 
Beneath  in  the  covert  calls, 

Where  the  curve  of  the  crescent  vale 

• 

Sweeps  round  the  battled  walls. 

In  the  troubled  years  agone, 
A  tawny,  turbaned  band, 
76 


HADETH  THE  MARONITE 

In  the  gray  of  the  early  dawn, 

Rode  up  through  the  mountain  land ; 

Rode  up  through  the  vineyards  fair 
While  faded  the  morning  star, 

Till  rose  in  the  brightening  air 
The  walls  of  Der-el-Kamar. 

The  guard  grew  pale  at  the  gate, 

But  he  bade  them  halt,  nor  pass  ; 
They  charged  like  a  bolt  of  fate, 

And  shivered  the  bar  like  glass. 
Through  the  wakening  streets  they  ran, 

In  the  glow  of  the  new-born  day  j 
They  spared  nor  maid  nor  man 

In  their  frenzied  thirst  to  slay. 

To  them  't  was  a  holy  strife, 

A  boon  in  the  Prophet's  eyes  ; 
An  unarmed  Christian's  life 

Was  a  sacred  sacrifice. 
The  skies  caught  up  the  wail, 

Blood  ran  like  wine  from  a  cruse  ; 
Never  an  arm  could  avail 

Against  the  wrath  of  the  Druse. 


78  HADETH  THE  MARONITE 

But  Hadeth  thought  of  his  bride, 

And  his  mother,  gray  with  years, 
And  he  cast  despair  aside, 

And  laughed  to  scorn  his  fears. 
"  Yet  there  is  time,"  he  said, 

"  Ere  the  last  defender  fall, 
To  baffle  the  foeman  dread 

By  the  break  in  the  valley  wall." 

He  gathered  the  old  and  young ; 

Their  feet  seemed  shod  with  the  wind  ; 
(But  a  furious  shout  out-rung 

From  the  demon  horde  behind.) 
The  break  in  the  wall  they  reach ; 

Who  will  shelter  their  flight  ? 
See  !  he  stands  in  the  breach, 

Hadeth  the  Maronite. 

Boldly  he  fronts  them  there,  — 

The  swarthy,  surging  foe ; 
His  scimitar  gleams  in  air 

Like  the  arc  of  an  iris-bow. 
Mad  is  their  charge,  but  vain, 

For  firmly  he  breasts  the  shock, 
And  stems  the  human  main 

Like  a  battlement  of  rock. 


HADETH  THE  MARONITE.  79 

Alas,  for  earthly  power 

That  hero-hearts  should  fall ! 
That  wrong  should  rule  the  hour, 

And  right  be  pressed  to  the  wall ! 
Yet  not  till  the  weak  who  fled 

Were  safe  in  the  mountains  far, 
Did  Hadeth  the  brave  lie  dead 

By  the  breach  at  Der-el-Kamar. 

But  none  shall  slay  his  name, 

This  son  of  Der-el-Kamar ; 
Set  in  the  sky  of  fame, 

Burns  it  a  steadfast  star. 
While  the  seasons  wheel  around, 

And  darkness  follows  the  light, 
Still  shall  his  praise  resound,  — 

Hadeth  the  Maronite. 


MUSTAPHA 

MIDDLE  May  at  Istamboul ! 
Eastern  breezes  blowing  cool 
From  the  distant  Asian  shore, 
Ruffling  water  like  the  oar. 
Sunlight  in  an  amber  flood, 
Roses  swelling  in  the  bud  ; 
Doves  above  on  drowsy  wing, 
Every  mosque  roof  glimmering. 
Birds  in  brambly  gardens  old 
Piping  from  the  jasmine  spray; 
Everything  aglow  with  gold,  — 
Istamboul  in  middle  May ! 

Istamboul  in  middle  May ! 
See  !  the  Sultan  goes  to-day 
To  his  favorite  mosque,  and  there 
Will  he  pass  an  hour  in  prayer. 
What  a  throng  his  coming  waits 
By  the  stately  palace  gates  ! 
Hither  have  they  madly  pressed, 
80 


MUSTAPHA  8 1 

Stealthy  thief  and  beggar  pest ; 
Here  are  jostled,  man  to  man, 
Greek  and  grave  Armenian ; 
Here  the  Jew  receives  a  blow 
From  his  ancient  Roman  foe  ; 
And  with  sullen  brows  and  murk, 
Frowns  on  all  the  ruling  Turk. 

Arms  at  rest,  along  the  way 
Stands  a  statuesque  array ; 
File  on  serried  file  is  seen, 
Turbaned  with  the  sacred  green  ; 
And  as  far  as  eye  can  view, 
Bayonets  of  steely  blue 
Catch  the  midday  sun,  and  throw 
Back  the  scintillating  glow. 
Yonder  marble  mosque  is  where 
Goes  the  Sultan  for  his  prayer ; 
Yonder  carpet  fine  is  spread 
For  his  royal  feet  to  tread  ; 
And  this  guardian  throng  must  wait 
Till  he  signs  to  ope  the  gate. 

While  the  halting  moments  pass, 
Comes  with  ringing  clink  of  glass 


82  MUSTAPHA 

* 
One  whose  figure,  tall  and  thin, 

Bends  beneath  a  water-skin. 
He  has  caught  a  curious  eye  j 

"  Buy  !  "  he  cries,  "  Howadji,  buy !  " 

"  Moya  Tdib  ?"  l  we  reply. 
Suddenly  his  dark  face  shines, 
Softening  all  its  furrowed  lines, 
And  a  stream,  long,  long  up-pent, 
Has  enthusiastic  vent. 
We  of  Anglo-Saxon  birth, 
Wanderers  on  alien  earth, 
By  this  Arab-Ishmael 
Are  entranced  as  by  a  spell, 
While  this  story  glibly  slips 
From  Mustapha's  bearded  lips  j  — 

"  Time  agone  "  (thus  opes  his  tale), 

"  In  a  Nubian  desert  vale 
With  my  people  did  I  dwell 
By  a  sweet  oasis  well. 
There  was  goodly  pasture  here 
Through  the  circling  of  the  year  ; 
Fruit  we  plucked  from  palm  and  fig, 
And  the  grain  grew  ripe  and  big 
Twice  in  every  twelve-month's  space, 
1  Is  the  water  good  ? 


MUSTAPHA  83 

In  our  lonely  dwelling-place. 
Here,  to  cheer  each  fleeting  hour, 
Smiled  on  me  my  desert  flower ; 
Oh,  what  happiness  was  mine 
In  that  land  of  glad  sunshine  ! 

"  Once  as  joyfully  I  rode 
Backward  to  our  fair  abode, 
From  a  pilgrimage  afar 
To  the  gates  of  gray  Gondar, 
Down  upon  me,  fierce  of  mien, 
Swooped  a  band  of  Bedoueen, 
As  from  haunted  heights  of  rock 
On  some  laggard  of  the  flock 
Hungry  vultures  swoop.     In  vain 
Did  I  spur  along  the  plain  ; 
I  must  yield  or  die  !  —  and  then 
Flashed  across  my  wildered  ken 
One  swift  thought  of  her,  my  flower,  — 
Solace  of  my  every  hour. 
I  could  not,  with  unchanged  breath, 
Look  upon  the  face  of  death, 
So  I  yielded,  and  was  borne 
Far  away  to  pine  and  mourn,  — 
Far  away  a  slave,  and  sold 
For  the  base  Egyptian  gold. 

/-"^l 

UNI  VERSUS 


84  MUSTAPHA 

"  Never  did  I  seem  to  fret 
Over  tasks  my  master  set, 
For  within  my  bosom's  night 
Hope  had  fixed  her  star  of  light. 
Daily  did  I  watch  and  long 
To  escape  the  captive  throng ; 
Week  on  weary  week  wore  by, 
And  no  less  a  slave  was  I ; 
Till  a  midnight  revel  deep 
Laid  on  all  a  leaden  sleep, 
When,  with  soft  and  eager  tread, 
Far  into  the  dark  I  fled, 
Blindly  wandered  until  morn 
In  the  gloomy  east  was  born. 
Then,  as  day  was  lit  with  flame, 
To  a  soldier's  camp  I  came,  — 
In  the  ranks  a  man  had  died  ; 
*  You  shall  fill  his  place  ! '  they  cried. 
Three  long  years  !  ah,  three,  long  years  ! 
To  my  eyes  sprang  bitter  tears ; 
Thinking  of  the  days  to  be, 
Mine  was  speechless  misery. 

"  Soon  we  sailed  away,  and  where 
Old  Esh-Sham 1  lies,  blossom-fair, 
1  Damascus. 


MUSTAPHA  85 

'Mid  her  gardens,  sweet  with  song, 
Slothfully  we  tarried  long. 
Yet  again  we  sailed,  and  here 
Came,  at  dawning  of  the  year. 
I  had  earned  release  at  last ; 
But  my  joy  was  overcast. 
How  could  I  my  native  shore 
Gain  with  such  a  scanty  store  ? 
Hence  behold  the  trade  I  ply,  — 
With  my  dripping  water-skin 
Threading  ever  out  and  in 
Through  the  throng  with  ceaseless  cry, 
*  Water,  oh,  sweet  water,  buy  ! ' 

"  You,  Howadji,  you  who  know, 
All  the  story  of  my  woe ; 
Know  my  long  and  lorn  exile 
From  the  land  where  flows  the  Nile, 
From  the  one  who  waits  in  vain 
While  the  warm  moons  wax  and  wane, 
Grant  me  gracious  aid,  and  make 
Kindly  gift  for  her  sweet  sake  !  " 

Such  the  moving  tale  we  hear, 
Hearkening  with  charmed  ear; 


86  MUSTAPHA 

Honesty  we  seem  to  trace 
In  his  grave,  uplifted  face, 
And  we  salve  his  checkered  palm 
With  the  universal  balm. 
Joy  illumines  his  sunken  eyes,  — 
Then  a  Greek  anear  us  cries  : 
"  He  is  called  l  The  sire  of  lies  ! '  " 
Turn  we  toward  Mustapha  —     Gone  ! 
Like  the  filmy  mist  at  dawn, 
Faded,  vanished  from  the  day. 

Blare  the  trumpets,  roll  the  drums ; 

'T  is  a  glorious  display. 

Shouts  the  throng :  "  The  Sultan  comes  !  " 

Istamboul  in  middle  May  ! 


E-LIM-IN-AH-DO. 

'T  WAS  in  the  bazaars  of  the  Smyrniotes 

That  we  heard  the  lingering  call, 
With  its  mellow,  musical,  bell-like  notes, 

And  its  rhythmic  rise  and  fall. 
It  soared  o'er  the  camel-driver's  shout, 
And  the  bale-bent  porter's  angry  flout,  — 

"O—  O 
E-lim-in-ah-do  !  " 

There  were  the  figs  of  Omoorloo, 

Large  and  luscious  and  bursting  ripe ; 
And  from  a  cafe*  near  there  blew 

The  tempting  scent  of  the  water-pipe ; 
But  Tireh's  grapes  would  have  hung  in  vain 
Upon  the  vines  had  we  heard  that  strain,  — 

"O—  O 
E-lim-in-ah-do  !  " 

Amber,  clear  as  a  prisoned  ray 

Of  the  morning  sunlight,  was  forgot ; 
87 


88  E-LIM-IN-AH-DO 

Rugs,  rich  with  the  hues  of  dying  day, 

From  the  looms  of  Persia,  lured  us  not. 
While  the  motley  Smyrna  world  swept  by, 
We  hung  on  the  sound  of  the  witching  cry,  — 

"  O—  O 
E-lim-in-ah-do  !  " 

Then  out  of  the  jostling  crowd  he  came, 

With  his  crook-necked  flask  and  his  clink  of 

glass  ; 
As  keen  of  eye  and  supple  of  frame 

As  a  Lydian  pard  we  saw  him  pass,  — 
Saw  him  pass,  and  above  the  roar 
Caught  the  lilt  of  his  call  once  more,  — 

11  0—0 
E-lim-in-ah-do  /" 

Who  can  measure  melody's  power  ? 

It  sways  the  soul  with  the  same  strange  spell 
On  lovely  lips  in  a  lady's  bower, 

Or  those  of  a  vagrant  Ishmael. 
And  still  floats  back,  with  its  thrilling  bars, 
The  strain  from  the  Smyrniote  bazaars,  — 

"  O—  O 
E-lim-in-ah-do  I " 


ON   AN  ANTIQUE  LAMP 

DEFT  was  the  patient  artisan 

Who  moulded  thee  in  such  a  way 

That  thou  hast  long  outlasted  man, 
Thy  brother,  built  of  frailer  clay. 

Dim  ages  since  for  mortal  eyes 

The  purple  dark  thou  didst  illume  ; 

But  they,  these  fleeting  centuries, 

Have  known  the  light  beyond  the  tomb. 

Forever  quenched  thy  flaring  fire, 
And  yet,  to  us,  thou  seem'st  to  cast 

The  ghost-flame  of  some  dead  desire 
From  out  the  vistas  of  the  past. 
89 


SUNRISE   ON   THE   AEGEAN 

WESTWARD  proudly  was  our  vessel  standing 

'Neath  the  starry  zenith  calm  and  cold, 
When  the  light  lines,  one  by  one  expanding, 

Streaked  the   east  with   bars  of   burnished 

gold; 
O'er  the  bosom  of  the  deep  behind  us 

In  a  molten  flood  the  colors  flowed, 
For  a  moment  did  the  glory  blind  us, 

With  such  radiance  it  glowed. 

Rosy  were  the  ripples  that  ran  after 

Where  our  prow  a  gentle  furrow  made ; 
Snowy  sea-gulls  seemed  with  winged  laughter 

O'er  our  heads  to  hover,  unafraid. 
Amethystine  grew  the  mist  banks  hoary 

That  on  Zea's  fertile  fig-slopes  lay, 
And  the  templed  Sunium  promontory 

Flushed  beneath  the  sunrise  ray. 
90 


SUNRISE   ON  THE  AEGEAN  QI 

Half  did  we  expect  to  see,  back-flinging, 

Some  great  altar's  sacrificial  fire, 
Half  did  we  expect  to  hear,  far-ringing, 

Clear-toned  voices  of  some  matin  choir  ;  — 
Such  as  might  have  swelled  in  song  sonorous, 

Welcoming  the  manners  of  yore, 
Strophe  answering  strophe  in  full  chorus, 

Wind-borne  from  the  rocky  shore. 

Then  from  out  his  Orient  chamber  lightly 

As  a  lover  leaped  the  sun  in  air ; 
Under  his  divine  caresses  brightly 

Blushed  the  earth  to  know  he  found  her  fair. 
And  it  seemed  to  us,  with  ardor  burning, 

Watching  how  the  land  grew  glad  with  morn, 
That  we  were  as  wanderers  returning 

To  the  clime  where  we  were  born. 

And  the  while  our  hearts  with  swift  pulsation 

Bounded  as  our  barque  beneath  her  sails, 
Cried  we  with  ecstatic  emulation 

Greeting  to  the  sunny  Attic  dales  ; 
Greeting  to  the  mountain  peaks  uplifting 

In  the  drifting  hyacinthine  haze, 
Greeting  to  the  silvery  sands  and  shifting, 

Greeting  to  the  flowery  ways. 


92  SUNRISE   ON  THE  AEGEAN 

You  may  wander  all  the  wide  world  over, 

See  the  sunrise  kindle  where  you  will,  — 
Never,  though  you  be  a  life-long  rover, 

Will  it  thrill  the  heart  with  such  a  thrill, 
Flood  the  being  with  such  rapt  emotion, 

Fill  the  soul  with  such  celestial  peace, 
As  when  first  o'er  the  ^gean  ocean 

It  sublimes  the  hills  of  Greece  ! 


NIGHT  ON  THE  ACROPOLIS 

NIGHT  and  no  cloud, 

But  the  great  glory  of  the  Grecian  moon 

Above  us,  and  around  us  her  pure  light, 

Making  us  dream  of  June 

In  lands  where  yet  the  winds  are  harsh  and 

loud, 

And  snow-drifts  still  are  white 
In  shaded  woodland  nooks  afar  from  sight. 

But  June  is  with  us  here,  or  more  than  June ; 
For  saw  we  not  to-day, 
Where  sweeps  the  plain  from  Megara  away 
To  the  brown  sands  that  beach  her  crescent  bay, 
Mowers   that   swung  the  scythe  and  sung  in 

tune, 

And  laughed  across  the  wheat 
To  maidens  sweet  ? 
And  now 

The  soft  ^Egean  breeze  that  soothes  the  brow 
Has  happy  hints  of  summer  largess,  blown 
93 


94  NIGHT  ON  THE   ACROPOLIS 

From  that  luxuriant  zone 

Where   fruits  hang  crimson  on  the  drooping 
bough. 

Ay  !  here  is  all  a  summer  night  can  give, 
Save  regal  roses  and  the  nightingale  ; 
And  who,  the  leafy  season  long,  would  live 
With  ear  wide-oped  to  Philomela's  tale  ? 
Or  who  would  always  find 
The  rich  rose-attar  spilled  upon  the  wind  ? 

Athens  is  Greece ;  and  where  is  Athens'  heart, 
That  throbs  immortal,  if  it  be  not  here  ? 
The  very  dust  is  sacred,  being  a  part 
Of  her  great  bosom.     Every  chiseled  stone, 
Each  base,  each  arch,  each  pillar,  placed  or 

prone, 
To  those  who    bow   at    Freedom's    shrine   is 

dear. 

Not  less  do  they  revere 

This  mighty  rock  who  hold  to  Beauty's  worth 
In  fusing  thoughts  of  higher,  grander  things 
Into  the  baser  minds  of  earth  ; 
For  here,  with  heaven-plumed  wings, 
Had  Love  of  Beauty  birth. 


NIGHT  ON  THE  ACROPOLIS  95 

Do  not  the  wraiths  of  the  great  gods  of  old, 

Intangible,  impalpable  as  air, 

Here  hover  in  their  dumb,  divine  despair  ? 

And  what  a  grandeur  shines 

From  their  downthrown  and  desecrated  shrines  ! 

Behold,  behold, 

How,  with  imperious  majesty  of  might, 

Against  the  vast,  moon-flooded  wall  of  night, 

The  shattered  shafts  that  were  the  Parthenon 

Loom  large  upon  the  sight ! 

How  flawless  once  the  fluted  columns  shone, 

When,  with  grave  chant  and  sacerdotal  rite, 

Before  the  unpolluted  altars  came 

From  th'  Eleusinian  fane,  in  windings  long, 

A  garland-crowned  throng 

To  render  homage  unto  Ceres'  name ! 

Still  are  there  pilgrim  feet,  and  still  will  be 

While  toward  the  sapphire  gulf  of  Phaleron 

And  purple  Salamis, 

O'er  Attica's  warm  meadows  steadfastly 

Frowns  the  stern  brow  of  the  Acropolis. 

Though  the  Greek  gods  be  dead, 

The  best  their  worship  fostered  still  abides, 

Eternal  as  the  unfathomed  ocean's  tides, 

Or  as  the  hallowed  soil  whereon  we  tread. 


g6  NIGHT  ON  THE  ACROPOLIS 

We  may  not  linger  till  the  night  wax  old, 

But,  ere  we  turn  to  go, 

Shall  we  not  greet  clear  Hesper  rising  slow 

Above  Hymettus,  looming  black  and  bold  ? 

Whence  the  celestial  brilliance  of  yon  star 

That  no  moon-glory  pales  ? 

Surely  above  the  violet  vales  afar, 

On  shores  where  surge  the  occidental  seas 

In  billowy  symphonies, 

It  never  shone  in  such  mysterious  wise  ! 

Drink  in,  O  wondering  eyes, 

The  starlight  and  the  moonlight  on  these  dales, 

And  on  the  sacred  mountain-tops  that  rise 

To  sacred  skies  ! 

Reach  out,  O  yearning  soul,  be  drenched  in 

light ! 

Melt  into,  mingle  with,  the  soul  of  night ! 
This  is  thy  Greece  ;  thy  dearest  dream  is  won ; 
Thou  standest  on  thy  hope's  supremest  height, 
Within  the  shadow  of  thy  Parthenon ! 


THE  TETTIX 

DEWY  and  fragrant  was  the  twilight  falling 
Upon  the  wide  sweep  of  the  Argive  plain, 

But,  from  the  oleander  copses  calling, 
No  night-bird  voiced  its  immemorial  pain. 

Yet,  clear  and   sweet,  harmonious   and  win 
ning,  — - 

Bar  intermingling  with  melodious  bar,  — 
The  tireless  tettix  with  its  violining 

Filled  all  the  sundown  silence  near  and  far. 

And  we,  who  loved  the  blithe  note  of  the  cricket 
Beside  the  hearth  when  autumn  days  were 

bleak, 
Hearing  this  home-like  sound  from  mead  and 

thicket, 

Felt  in  our  hearts  a  kinship  for  the  Greek. 
97 


ORACLES 

BEFORE  the  birth-song  of  the  Galilean 
Thrilled  through  the  spheres  afar, 

Long  ere  the  echo  of  that  sweet  peace  paean 
Was  borne  from  star  to  star, 

Men  sought  from  prophets,  priests,  and  statues 
graven, 

To  gain  some  gleam  of  light 
That  should  illume  the  future's  pathway,  paven 

With  shadows  dark  as  night. 

Far  in  the  heart  of  Libyan  deserts  arid 

Was  Ammon's  altar  reared  ; 
And  long  and  patiently  the  pilgrims  tarried 

To  list  the  voice  they  feared. 

The  laureled  Pythian  priestess  of  Apollo, 

From  hills  that  Delphi  crown, 
Inspired  by  breathings  from  her  cave's  black 

hollow, 

Sent  her  weird  visions  down, 
98 


ORACLES  99 

Dodonian   oaks,    through  whom   low   tongues 
seemed  crying 

To  every  wandering  breeze, 
Drew,  by  their  power  of  wondrous  prophesying, 

Strange  folk  far  over  seas. 

Happy  were  they  who  dreamed  of  no  deceiv 
ing, 

Whate'er  the  worshiped  shrine, 
Who  lived  undoubting  lives  out,  still  believing 

In  tokens  sibylline. 

Shall  we,  who  bow  before  the  one  eternal 

And  gracious  Godhead,  hold 
In  scorn  what  they  deemed  sacred  in  those 
vernal 

Sweet  Grecian  days  of  old  ? 

Ah,  no,  for  while  its  lustrous  light  outflinging, 

Clear  gleams  the  morning  star, 
The  vocal  trees,  the  free  birds'  rapturous  sing 
ing, 

Will  be  oracular  1 


A  GREEK  PASTORAL 

THE  sky  is  like  a  sea  without  a  shore  ; 

Both  fruit  and  blossom  gleam  upon  the  lime ; 

The   bees   are   murmurous  in  the  fragrant 

thyme, 

Gathering  honey  for  their  winter  store. 
Yon  gentle  slope  is  like  a  flowery  floor, 

With  lavish  cistus  bloom  as  white  as  rime  j 

Among   the   boulders   gray   the  spry  goats 

climb, 
And  up  the  air  the  swift-winged  swallows  soar. 

It  is  the  drowsy  hour  when  Pan  of  old 

Dreamed   in    the    shade,   when    shepherds 

strayed  abroad 
And  wooed  with  song,  nor  watched  the 

young  lambs  feed ; 

Sleep  still  enthralls  the  vision-haunted  god, 
While  clear  as  ever  lover  piped,  and  bold, 
Young  Thyrsis  pipes  upon  his  oaten  reed. 


A  TEAR   BOTTLE 

FOR  Daphne  were  the  tear-drops  shed 
With  which  this  tiny  urn  was  wet, 

The  while  they  wove  about  her  head 
Sweet  sprays  of  Delphian  serpolet  ? 

And  did  they  place  it  in  her  tomb,  — 
This  sad  libation  of  their  tears,  — 

The  maids  whose  fair  cheeks  wore  the  bloom 
Of  tenderly  unfolding  years  ? 

And  did  he  come,  the  one  whose  heart 
In  hers  responsive  love  had  found. 

And  stand,  with  quivering  lip,  apart 
From  all  the  mourners  gathered  round  ? 

"  A  figment  of  the  brain,"  you  say, 
"  An  idle  rhymer's  idle  rhyme ; " 

And  yet  how  grief  can  sweep  away 
The  shadowy  barriers  of  time  ! 
101 


HONEY   OF   HYMETTUS 

DID  you  dream  last  year  that  we 
E'er  should  tread  the  myrtled  lea, 

E'er  should  taste  the  amber  honey 
Of  the  Hymettean  bee  ? 
Yet  to-day  we  blithely  rove 
Through  this  gnarled  Grecian  grove, 
While  below  us,  broad  and  sunny, 
Booms  the  blue  ^Egean  Sea. 

Yonder,  purple  in  the  wide 
Lustrous  light  of  noonday-tide, 

Lie  the  flowery  reaches  fragrant 
Where  the  nectar-gatherers  bide ; 
Cyclamen,  anemone, 
Asphodel  a-swinging  free, 

Do  they  drain,  each  winged  vagrant, 
Haunting  all  the  long  hillside. 

Vainly,  vainly,  did  we  seek 
For  the  splendor  of  the  Greek, 


HONEY  OF  HYMETTUS  1 03 

For  some  remnant  of  the  glory 
Of  the  mythic  time  antique. 
Now  the  Parthenon  is  rent, 
Th'  Eleusinian  fane  is  shent, 
And  Ilissus,  great  in  story, 
Is  the  ribbon  of  a  creek. 

But  thy  heights,  Hymettus,  yield 
All  the  largess  they  concealed 

When  the  warrior  faced  the  foemen, 
With  the  spear  and  with  the  shield. 
This  they  could  not  bear  away, 
Those  that  made  thy  land  a  prey,  — 
The  Venetian,  Turk,  and  Roman, 
Pilfering  thy  fertile  field. 

Though  the  Greeks  that  wander  now 
Underneath  the  laurel  bough, 

By  the  shore  on  sands  ^Egean, 
With  a  louder  praise  endow 
Honey  stilled  by  island  bees 
On  the  slopes  in  middle  seas,  — 

Honey  drained  from  blossoms  Zean, 
Bright  on  many  a  mountain  brow ; 


104  HONEY  OF  HYMETTUS 

Yet  will  we  with  fervor  sing, 
Thine  our  lyric  offering, 

Golden  bounty  of  Hymettus, 
Luscious  treasure  of  the  spring ! 
Not  for  us  the  nectar  bland 
Of  the  fruitful  island-land  ; 

Swell  the  olden  greetings  j  let  us 
Strike  anew  the  Orphic  string ! 

Join  the  chorus,  ye  who  will ! 
"  Honey  of  Hymettus  hill," 

Dew  divine  through  unseen  portal 
Poured  the  chalice-blooms  to  fill ! 
What  rare  opulence  is  ours  !  — 
Essence  of  Elysian  flowers, 

Sacred  to  the  bards  immortal, 
We  will  hold  it  sacred  still! 


A   FERN   FROM   THE   PIERIAN 
SPRING 

THIS  fragile  fern-frond  has  for  me 

The  illusive  charm  that  some  songs  hold, 

For  it  once  heard  the  melody 
Of  that  famed  fount  of  old. 

The  stern  gray  walls  are  wasted  now, 
That  saw  the  wide  gulf's  azure  span, 

And  riots  the  wild  fig-tree  bough 
O'er  shrines  Corinthian. 

Yet  still  the  spring  wells,  cool  and  clear, 

As  in  far  Sophoclean  time,  — 
A  draught  divine,  and  to  the  ear 

A  silver  rill  of  rhyme. 

Here  was  the  Muses'  fair  demesne, 
And  still  they  tend  the  crystal  urn, 

Keeping  the  love  of  song  as  green 
As  this  frail  frond  of  fern. 
105 


MOONRISE  OVER   SALAMIS 

BACK  from  o'erthrown  Corinthian  shrines  we 
came  ; 

The  day  had  died  in  flame ; 
The  purple  mountains  one  by  one  grew  black 

As  some  dense  thunder-wrack, 
And  like  a  meteor  among  the  stars 

Flamed  the  red  war- orb,  Mars. 

With  sweet  monotony  of  silvern  sound 
Did  the  warm  waves  rebound,  — 

The  fond,   dark  waves   caressing  the  curved 

shore. 
There  was  no  noise  of  oar, 

But  from  the  olives,  rapturous  notes  and  swift 
Did  one  lone  night-bird  lift. 


e> 


Then  o'er  the  isle's  dim  brow  did  we  behold 

A  radiant  blade  of  gold, 
That  grew  by  gradual  increase,  till  it  hung 

In  middle  air,  and  flung 
1 06 


MOONRISE   OVER  SAL  AMIS          IO/ 

From  its  resplendent  arc  such  lines  of  light 
That  night  was  no  more  night. 

This  moon-bright  isle,  this  moon-bright  bay* 
sweep,  —  this 

Was  glorious  Salamis, 
Where  Persia's  boasted  pomp  of  empire  fell 

Sheer  to  defeat's  grim  hell ; 
And  where,  heroic  o'er  the  rout-strewn  seas, 

Towered  grand  Themistocles. 

Dimmed  by  the   magic   moonlight,   from   its, 
throne 

Paler  the  war-star  shone  ; 
No  serried  oar-banks  did  we  see  arise, 

We  heard  no  battle-cries  ; 
Yet  vague  the  breathing  present  seemed  to  us,  — 

The  past  was  luminous. 

We  marked  the  fragrant  smoke  of  sacrifice 

Mount  to  the  moonlit  skies ; 
We  felt  the  great  heart-gratitude  that  laid 

Its  touch  on  youth  and  maid  ;  — 
May  we  not  thus  re-live,  in  joys  and  woes, 
•    Our  earlier  lives,  —  who  knows  ? 
I/ 


A   SHEPHERD'S   CROOK 

NOT  on  the  hills  of  old, 

In  a  shaggy-haired  capote, 

Did  he  tend  the  sheep  and  goat, 

And  drive  them  into  the  fold 

With  the  sturdy  crook  I  hold. 

Flesh  and  blood  is  he  now, 

Bronzed  by  the  sun  and  strong 

As  his  nimble-footed  flock  ; 

And  he  loves  the  mountain's  brow, 

The  gorge  and  the  beetling  rock, 

The  brook  and  the  wild  bird's  song ; 

For  he  comes  of  the  hardy  stock 

That  roamed  over  Arcady 

When  the  Persian  crossed  the  sea. 

Wave  but  this  as  a  wand,  — 
This  crook  of  the  shepherd  wight,  — 
And  sudden  from  out  the  sight 
The  Near  will  waver  and  fail ; 
Now,  in  the  changing  light, 
108 


A   SHEPHERD'S  CROOK  109 

See,  there  rises  a  land 
Arched  with  a  sapphire  bright, 
Billowed  with  hill  and  vale ! 
"  Arcady  's  dead,"  you  say; 
Lo  !  we  are  there  to-day. 

Here,  with  his  sheep  around, 

Is  the  shepherd  tawny-faced, 

With  his  leggings  tightly  laced, 

And  his  russet  cape  awry, 

And  his  lithe  waist  girdle-bound  ; 

Here  is  ore  from  the  sky, 

Fresh  from  the  mines  of  the  sun,  — 

An  open  asphodel  bell  : 

And  there,  where  the  waters  run 

Dancing  down  to  the  dell, 

The  myrtles  change  their  sheen 

From  silver  to  tremulous  green  ; 

And  she,  —  she  walks  by  my  side. 

Like  a  goddess  steadfast-eyed. 

We  have  our  Arcadies  —  all  • 
They  spring  at  the  charmed  call. 
A  ribbon,  a  rose,  a  ring, 
Some  half-remembered  rhymes, 


HO  A  SHEPHERD'S  CROOK 

To  the  empty  heart  will  bring 
The  vision  of  golden  times  ;; 
A  wafture  of  faint  perfume, 
A  ray  through  a  darkened  room, 
The  merry  laugh  of  a  brook, 
The  wave  of  a  shepherd's  crook ; 
Come,  then,  away  with  me 
To  the  land  of  Arcady ! 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORNING 

i. 

OF  old, 

When  all  the  east  was  lit  with  Morn's  first  gold, 
And  slumbering  Thebes  awoke, 
And  splendors   through  her  pillared  porches 

broke,  — 

Torches  of  crimson,  tongues  of  amethyst, 
That  arch  and  column  kissed,  — - 
When  burst  these  glories,  then 
A  song  of  aspiration, 
A  chant  of  inspiration, 
The  mouth  of  Memnon  spoke  unto  the  sons  of 

men. 

ii. 

The  wakening  desert  heard, 
And  that  resplendent  bird, 
The  pink  flamingo,  flying  fleet  and  far  ; 
And  drowsing  at  the  oar, 
The  chained  slave,  laboring  sore, 
in 


112  HYMN  OF  THE  MORNING 

Whom  night  had  blessed  not  from  her  restful 

star. 

Through  every  door 
That  sound  its  summons  bore  ; 
"  Arise  !  "  it  said,  —  a  mighty  trumpet  call 
To  one  and  all  • 
A  call  to  breast  the  strife, 
And  struggle  foremost  in  the  van  of  life  ; 
Not  for  the  low  and  base, 
But  to  exalt  the  race. 

in. 

Memnon  is  silent  now, 

And   Thebes   stands  spectral  on  the   desert's 

brow. 
But  we, 

Beyond  the  unsounded  sea, 
Hear  Dawn's  memnonic  voice  from  stream  and 

tree, 

From  upland,  vale,  and  lea. 
Hark  !  how  they  greet  the  morn, 
As  though  a  god  were  born  !  — 
The  patriarchal  poplar,  spiring  high, 
The  spreading  elm,  a  spraying  fount  of  shade, 
The  stanch  maternal  maple,  great  of  thigh, 


HYMN  OF  THE    MORNING  113 

The  arrowy  pine,  as  sinewy  as  a  blade. 
Theirs  is  the  rousing  call  that  Memnon  made ; 
The  roving  winds  are  heralds  of  their  speech, 
But  the  deep  truths  they  teach 
On  dull  souls  fall  with  meaning  lightly  weighed. 

IV. 

Long,  long  ago, 
A  poet's  prophet  soul, 
Where  ocean's  waters  roll 
Round  Albion's  cliff-girt  isle  with  tireless  flow, 
Proclaimed  a  newer  Orient  should  be 
Unshackled,  free, 

Between  the  eastern  and  the  western  sea, 
Where  all  the  arts 
Should  flower  in  human  hearts,  — 
Religion,  science,  song,  — 
And  want  should  die,  and  sanguine  war,  and 
wrong. 

v. 

Look  forth  on  every  hand  ! 
Here  lies  the  Morning-land, 

The  grand,  the  new  ! 
No  sunset  clime  is  this, 


114  HYMN  OF  THE  MORNING 

But  Dawn's  supernal  apotheosis ; 
Yet  has  indeed  the  prophecy  come  true  ? 

VI. 

They  hearkened  not  of  yore  to  Memnon's  call, 

And  lo  !  above  their  fall 

The  obliterating  desert  sands  are  blown, 

And  the  wild  dogs  make  moan. 

They  reared  themselves  huge  idols ;  set  their 

store 

On  pleasure  and  the  siren  light  of  gold  ; 
The  power  of  place  was  more 
Than   righteousness.     The  great  was  bought 

and  sold, 
Till  Justice  shrank  abashed  before  the  base 

and  bold. 

Still  others  saw,  and  heard 
The  sunrise-spoken  word, 
But  heeded  not,  and  now 
They  are  as  Thebes  upon  the  desert's  brow. 

VII. 

While  eastern  skies  are  grandly  luminous, 

Shall  we  not  list  the  mighty  call  to  us  ? 

Great  Memnon-nature  calling  through  her  rills, 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORNING  115 

Her  everlasting  hills, 

Her  choral  forest  aisles, 

Her  billowy  meadow  miles, 

Her  soaring  birds,  her  blooms, 

Her  colors,  her  perfumes, 

Her  winds,  her  showers,  her  waves, 

Her  echo-breathing  caves  ? 

VIII. 

It  is  the  Morning-spirit  that  uplifts ; 

Turn  toward  her ! 

Yearn  toward  her ! 

Not  the  cloud-banks,  but  the  azure  rifts  ; 
Not  the  shadow,  but  the  glow  ; 
Not  the  stagnance,  but  the  flow  ; 
The  lofty,  not  the  low,  — 
Such  be  the  creed 
To  meet  our  need. 

IX. 

As  the  lotus  on  Nile's  broad  bosom  longs  deep 

for  the  sky, 
As  papyrus  reeds  lean  to  the  current  that  mur- 

mureth  by, 


Il6  HYMN  OF  THE  MORNING 

As  the  citron  leaves  tremble  to  songward  when 
nightingales  sing, 

As  the  camel  alone  in  the  desert  is  drawn  to 
ward  the  spring, 

As  the  foal  of  the  Nedjidee  Arab  turns,  sleep 
less  and  sure, 

Toward  the  path  whence  its  mother  will  leap 
with  its  cry  for  a  lure, 

Let  us  face  toward  the  Morn,  for  the  breath  of 
the  Morning  is  pure  ! 


And  let  us  climb  upon  aspiring  feet 
The  soaring  heights,  and  be  the  first  to  greet 
The  apocalyptic  outburst  that  sublimes 
The  wide  unrolling  of  our  clime  of  climes ! 
The  vales  are  lovely,  but  to  him  who  stands 
Above  the  thralldom  of  the  lower  lands 
The  fairest  revelations  are  made  known ; 
Yet  not  to  scale  these  earthly  heights  alone 
Our  powers  should  bend,  but  heights  of  mind 

and  soul, 

If  we  would  make  of  man  a  perfect  whole ; 
Upon  those  sacred  summits  far  more  clear 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORNING  \\J 

The  penetrating  rays  of  Truth  appear. 
Her  beams  will  conquer ;  those  upon  the  height 
Should  be  the  strenuous  bearers  of  the  light, 
Dispelling  empty  phantoms  of  the  night. 

XL 

All  great  souls  gone, 

How  they  faced  the  Morning, 

And  wrought  with  might  for  the  Truth  and 

God! 

They  welcomed  the  Dawn, 
And  the  cry  of  warning, 

And  smote  at  wrong  with  a  cleaving  rod. 
They  tended  the  fires 
Upon  Progress'  altar, 

And  theirs  was  the  zeal  that  the  martyrs 

made ; 

In  their  high  desires 
There  was  none  to  falter 

With  the  lifted  voice,  or  the  lifted  blade. 

XII. 

Then  cry,  O  Memnon,  cry  ! 

Exhort  and  prophesy, 

That  we  may  keep  our  Morning-heritage 


Il8  HYMN  OF  THE  MORNING 

So  pure  from  age  to  age 

That  no  obscuring  blight 

May  dim  its  widening  light, 

But  it  may  shine,  of  lands  the  fairest  born, 

When  bursts  o'er  earth  the  everlasting  Morn. 


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